


He Won't Tell You That He Loves You

by hellshandbasket



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Banter, Character Study, Domesticity, Fluff, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Miscommunication, Pining, Sexual Tension, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:33:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23894611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellshandbasket/pseuds/hellshandbasket
Summary: “Finish it out,” he grits between clenched teeth. “Go on. Ask it.”Nolan shifts in his seat. “Are or are you not attracted, at the very least, to Wilson?”House knocks his forehead against his cane. “I don’t know. Maybe.”[In which Nolan pulls at the Wilson thread, and House can't stop it all from unraveling. Repression is a hell of a drug.]
Relationships: Greg House/James Wilson
Comments: 96
Kudos: 657





	1. I.

**Author's Note:**

> Writing fic for a fandom long past its prime is the kind of irony for which I am too well suited. For anyone still out there, I hope you enjoy.
> 
> First: This fic is rated Explicit solely for a single chapter (the 3rd). However, it's not required in order to follow the story, and it can be easily skipped, because I've included all crucial scenes and dialogue surrounding it in the preceding and succeeding chapters. 
> 
> This takes place roughly between 6x02 and around 6x09, except I've extended the approximated timeframe and done away with the forced heterosexual nonsense. In short, it's early season 6 if the writers had bitten the bullet and made it properly gay.
> 
> Plotlines and cases from that period are referenced briefly but you shouldn't need to recall very much of those episodes to be able to follow the fic.
> 
> Title credit to yes, that one Richard Siken poem.

“Playing Wilson’s housewife is more of a role than a hobby but I suppose the end result is the same. I think Wilson enjoys it a little too much. There’s an old woman in our cooking class convinced we know the secret to a long and loving relationship. I might grab his ass next time just to shock her.” 

Nolan studies him. Not even a chuckle. House rolls his eyes. Tough crowds are boring.

“Why do you so frequently deadpan humorous references to sexual or romantic relationships with Wilson?”

House stares at him. “Oh God,” he bemoans. “Let’s not play into psychiatry stereotypes now. Repressed homosexual feelings for my best friend? Get new material.” 

Nolan taps his pen against his notepad but doesn’t react otherwise.

“People make the suggestion so often it’s easier to be sarcastic about it than it is to get defensive about it. I’m used to making jokes when people imply these things.” He considers. “And to annoy Wilson, of course.” 

Nolan waits a moment. “I’ve not once implied or suggested anything beyond a platonic relationship with Wilson before this very moment. So it can’t have been to dissuade any of my assumptions. And since Wilson is conspicuously absent from this room, it can’t have been for his benefit.” 

House rolls his cane between his palms. “Habit, then. I think the preoccupation with my gay jokes says more about you than me.” 

“An interesting habit,” Nolan says cynically. 

“We all have them,” House points out judiciously. Nolan doesn’t seem in a hurry to move on from the topic, so they’re silent for a short while and then House says, impulsively, “If Wilson were a woman, maybe things would be different.”

“Do you wish he were?”

“That’s an odd question.” 

Nolan shrugs noncommittally.

House glares. “I didn’t say I wished or wanted him to be. But if we’re getting hypothetical here, the best way to present such an outlandish—”

“Why is it outlandish?” 

“Interruptions are rude,” House says. “Anyway, the best way to go about this is the whole multiple universes theory. So—if there’s a timeline out there somewhere, which one Mr. Hawking has promised me there almost certainly is, in which Wilson is a woman and I am still entirely, gloriously _male_...then things would be different.”

Nolan scribbles something in his notebook. “Different in what way?”

“You know in what way,” House says irritably. “You started this conversation. It’s rude to pretend otherwise just to try and get more titillating words from me.”

Nolan seems to smile, just a bit. Bewildering, the things that amuse this man. “That’s fair.”

House squints at him. “Yes. It is.” 

“Alright. So of all the X factors which might prevent your non-platonic interest in Wilson...it’s that he is not a woman? His gender?”

House keeps squinting, unsure where this is going. “I’d say that’s a pretty big X factor. The biggest, maybe. And it’s not like I’m shitting on him for it. So if you’re going to suggest I’m being mean or—”

“No, no,” Nolan assures him. He stays quiet for a moment longer, as though choosing his words. “Then the answer is that you are not and cannot be attracted to anyone but women. You are completely heterosexual.” 

House laughs and goes to say _yes_ emphatically, haughtily and then...can’t. He ducks his chin, fiddles with his cane more. “I like women. I sleep with women. I date women.”

“That...isn’t what I asked.”

“Well, that’s what matters, isn’t it!” House feels defensive and isn’t even sure what he’s trying to defend. 

Nolan’s gaze is nearly palpable. “Fine. Let’s not work in such broad, global statements just now. Let’s narrow it down. Focus on one person. Wilson.” 

“Christ, do you _want_ me to be attracted to him? Do you have a thing for him?” 

“I think your relationship with Wilson is crucial to everything else in your life and has already been strained and I want to help you protect it. And we can’t protect it until we know exactly what kind of relationship it is.”

“I know what it is,” House snarls.

“Do you?” 

House clutches at his leg, though it isn’t hurting nearly as much as he might expect it to under this kind of stress.

Nolan gives him another moment before he speaks again. “Narrower, then. You said that you could not be attracted to Wilson _because_ he is a man—rather than any other reason, including simply that you do not find _him_ attractive, which would be the easiest answer. And yet you are unable to confirm that you do not feel attraction to men in general.” 

House remains quiet. 

“I’m sure you can see the fallacy here so I won’t waste time explaining it. Can you tell me: is it that you are not romantically attracted to him? Not sexually? Both? How do you know?”

House grits his teeth. “He’s my best friend. He’s an idiot who thinks I’m a better person than I am and he sticks around no matter how much of a jackass I am and he makes stupid faces when I prank him and he wears ugly ties and he always loses bets. It’s—not. We’re not.”

Nolan is scribbling something else down. 

House tries again. “What this has taught me is not to waste gay jokes on you.” House takes a breath. “Nolan.”

“Yes?” 

“There is no secret gay longing to uncover here. He’s my friend. He’s just—Wilson.” 

Nolan nods. “Okay. I believe you.”

“Do you?” 

“I do,” Nolan says, in his most patient voice. “I’m not in the habit of doubting patients when they’re communicating earnestly with me. I am here to learn about you, from you. Not dictate who you are. Wilson is just your friend. I believe you. I needed to ascertain the reality of the relationship, to better contextualize it for our work.” 

House frowns. “Then that’s it?” 

“Yes. That’s it. Now tell me—what do you think about animal companionship? As another hobby, a distraction.”

House rolls his eyes and checks the time again. 

••• 

The thing is—

The thing is, House ponders at one in the morning, staring up at Wilson’s non-judgmental ceiling from Wilson’s unassuming couch, when House was younger—before Wilson—

Before Wilson. 

••• 

“Is there something on my face?” Wilson’s hair is fluffy in the mornings and it makes his irritated expressions even harder to take seriously. “Oh my God, did you somehow get something on my face? Jesus, you didn’t like, draw on me in the dead of the night or something, did you? House, some of us still have see patients.”

“Your face is fine,” House grumbles. “It looks its usual shade of _fighting middle age and losing the fight_.”

Wilson ignores that. There’s a lot of ignoring House’s jokes going around right now. “Then stop staring at me like you’re planning my murder. Keep it up and I’ll tattle to Nolan. Homicidal thoughts will land you straight back in Mayfield.”

“You can’t prove I’m having homicidal thoughts.” 

“That was absolutely the wrong answer.” Wilson’s tag is sticking up from the collar of his sleep shirt when he turns his back on House to pour his coffee. House stares harder at that than he was at Wilson’s face. People fix tags for other people all the time, right? 

House cuts away at his waffle more aggressively. “Anyway, I’ve rescinded my total trust in Nolan. And there’s a waffle for you in the microwave. I used a French recipe.”

“Oui oui,” Wilson says in a terrible accent, moving to the microwave to retrieve his breakfast. His tag is still sticking up. “What is Nolan’s misdeed this time? I’m just itching to know.” There are faint goosebumps on his legs. He gets chilly in the morning.

House gets up and hobbles over to the thermostat, turns it up a few notches. “He wants us—he wants _me_ to get a pet.” 

“A pet?”

House makes his way back to the counter. Wilson is dumping an inordinate amount of the fresh whipped cream House made the other day onto his waffle. “Yes, Wilson. Pets. Domesticated animals which many people keep as companions.”

“Companions?”

“Did you wake up stupid?”

“No, no, I’m just—he thinks you need more companionship? That you—don’t have enough now?” Wilson has a tiny crease between his brows, but otherwise his face is still totally relaxed, eyes focused on drizzling syrup onto his waffle now. 

_Are you jealous of an animal, dear? Are you worried that you’ve left me lonely, sweetums?_ The barbs spring fresh to House’s mind and not three days earlier he would have delivered them with gusto. Instead he says, “You’re at the hospital most of the day.”

“Right,” Wilson says, finally looking up at House. There’s an expression on his face and House can’t place it, and it’s aggravating. “Dog?”

“Cat,” House says immediately. 

“Litter box.”

House rolls his eyes. “My responsibility, I know.”

Wilson looks at him for a moment more, then shrugs a shoulder. “Okay. Whatever Nolan prescribes. _God_ , this is good.” His voice is garbled during the last of the sentence, a massive bite of waffle stuffed into his mouth. 

“Thank the French,” House says, waving his fork. “There’s so little to thank them for anyway.”

“Yes, their contributions to art, science, and culture are so lacking.” Wilson is demolishing the waffle at a sickeningly rapid pace. House makes a mental note to keep this recipe in the regular rotation. 

“Shut up, square,” House admonishes, channeling his best playground bully. “There’s a rescue fair held every Saturday at the local pet shop.”

Wilson finishes off the rest of his waffle and turns back around to rinse the dish in the sink. “You want me to go with you?” 

House frowns and rubs his leg again. He can’t make himself respond. Wilson’s tag is still up. Wilson finishes rinsing his dishes and turns to House. His goosebumps are gone now, the apartment having warmed a bit, and he’s wearing his knowing little House-smile. “We’ll go on Saturday,” he says. 

House ducks his head and gives a short nod. 

“Thanks for the waffle.” Wilson’s back is turned as he walks back toward his bedroom, passing by closely enough that House could reach out and tuck his tag back in.

House doesn’t.

••• 

There isn’t really any reason House could have predicted this is how his and Wilson’s joint presence at the adoption fair might be taken—except that House is House and he absolutely should have seen this coming. He’s so busy wondering if he _did_ see this coming and that was why he wanted to bring Wilson along that he delays a moment in responding to the prying, indulgent question, “Seeing how coparenting works at low stakes before moving to the real thing?” 

The adoption coordinator is smiling at them, face just brimming with endearment, as if he and Wilson standing awkwardly amongst crates full of disinterested cats in the sweetest thing she’s ever seen.

“Uh—” Wilson starts, shooting House a look of confusion, as generally House would have jumped at the chance to say something biting or humorous in this situation. 

“We’re friends,” House says briskly. “Just friends. He’s more of a cat whisperer than I am. Brought him along to help me pick.” 

“Oh!” The coordinator blinks, looking surprised and glancing between them surreptitiously. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to assume.” 

“It’s fine.” House ignores the sidelong glance Wilson is giving him. “The cats?”

“Of course. Any idea what you’re looking for? Older? Kittens? We have some who have previously been mothers just over here. Finished nursing and weaning their litters. All spayed now, of course. Many people say cats who have been mothers have the best temperament…”

They follow her to the small cluster of cages, slitted yellow eyes tracking their movements from behind wired crates as they go. 

“Are you okay?” Wilson has his concerned, bleeding heart tone dialed up to full force, even as he lowers his volume to a discreet whisper.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” 

“I don’t know,” Wilson says cautiously. He sounds genuinely confused, and concerned by that. “Do you not want a cat?” 

“Don’t be silly,” House tells him as the coordinator, still chattering on, hands him a bundle of fur. The cat is white with large splotches of cinnamon orange, and her eyes are green, half closed, obviously disturbed from a nap. 

“So she’s the tiniest bit wobbly, but it’s never affected her litter box use or day to day functioning in any serious way. And since she’s three years old, she’s well adjusted to her condition. She has trouble with stairs, though.”

“Wobbly?” It’s Wilson who asks which is fine because that was House’s question, too.

The coordinator looks at them oddly, and House realizes that’s what she must have been rambling on about while he and Wilson were whispering. “Yes. It’s called cerebellar—”

“Hypoplasia,” House says immediately, peering down at the cat with renewed interest. Wilson reaches a hand out to pet her and she wriggles closer to House in response.

“Do you have stairs?” 

“No,” Wilson tells her.

“Who needs ‘em anyway? More trouble than they’re worth, right?” House says to the cat conspiratorially. Wilson makes a soft sound and House looks up to see Wilson looking at him so gently it makes House scowl and return his eyes back to the cat. 

“I’ll give you a moment with her, see how you two feel about one another,” the coordinator says, sounding hopeful, like this cat’s been hard to get adopted. House clutches her a little tighter in his one arm so he can still use his cane and they follow the coordinator to a couple of camping chairs set up at the end of the table. 

“You’re obviously going to adopt her,” Wilson says as soon as the woman is out of earshot.

“What makes you say that so confidently? We’ve only seen just her, and she’s defective anyway.”

He can _hear_ Wilson’s eye roll. The camping chairs are close together and his calf is just barely brushing House’s own. House shifts his leg so they’re not touching at all. “Yeah, and she’s the one _because_ she’s defective. Interesting medical history, bit of a misfit, relatable...challenges.” 

“Challenges,” House simpers, “how PC of you. And how sweet, the gimp wants the gimpy cat.”

“You better not name her Gimpy or whatever once we adopt her.”

House tickles the cat under her chin and she purrs just slightly, still looking ready for a nap. “One last test to pass,” he announces, and holds her out to Wilson. 

Wilson reaches a hand out and she _hisses_ , then attempts to wriggle back towards House’s chest. Wilson looks deeply affronted and House grins. “Oh yeah, she _is_ the one.” 

••• 

It takes twenty minutes and a few forms, and then House can officially call a domesticated, helpless animal his property. Wilson seems ready to smack him when says this aloud and takes the carrier himself to the car, murmuring to the cat that House doesn’t mean it, which is fucking ridiculous.

They still haven’t named her and House tells Wilson they have to get to know her before she’s earned a name. 

••• 

He feels slightly betrayed when within a week, she’s climbing on Wilson’s lap while they watch movies and wobbles around to follow Wilson into the kitchen, the bathroom. She prefers to sleep cuddled up to House on the couch at night and during the day while Wilson’s at the hospital she clings to House’s every movement. Still, House was rather looking forward to plaguing Wilson with a cat who didn’t like him when everyone else does.

_Traitor_ , he mouths to her one night when Wilson’s dozing on the couch in front of _Baywatch_ reruns. She blinks lazily at him and turns her nose more contentedly into Wilson’s belly, asleep in seconds. 

••• 

“The pet you prescribed is in love with Wilson,” House tells Nolan sullenly.

“The cat you still haven’t named? It’s been two weeks.” 

“She doesn’t need a name to do her job,” House points out. “Companionship doesn’t require names.”

“And her attachment to Wilson is at the cost of showing you affection, attention?”

“No, she likes me. Yesterday she was an excellent tester for a new marinara sauce and she likes to sit on my leg, which is essentially a free heating pad, you know?” 

Nolan studies him. “So what’s the issue?” 

House scowls and taps his cane. “Nothing. I’m just saying. My cat— _my_ cat—is in love with Wilson.” 

“I see,” Nolan says slowly. He seems to think for a moment, then scribbles something onto his pad. 

“You’re a fucking quack,” House grumbles, then switches tack to telling Nolan about his worsening insomnia. 

••• 

The problem, House decides, is proximity. Nolan has messed with House’s head, which normally wouldn’t be a problem, except now he can’t get away from Wilson at all. They’re closer for longer than they’ve ever had to be by design and Nolan’s messed with House’s goddamn head. The entire situation is abnormal and House needs to get them back to as close a semblance of normal as possible so he can get his head right. 

It’s never occurred to House before now that even with the comfortable length of Wilson’s couch, they generally end up more or less sharing the single center cushion, bodies pressed together from shoulders to ankles. 

Easy solution: House sits at the right end one night and is feeling rather pleased with himself until Wilson arrives with the popcorn and simply sits himself right next to House at the end anyway. House glowers at him, but Wilson seems completely oblivious, going on with some inane commentary about the action flick playing on the TV. 

Their hands brush when reaching for the popcorn too, and eventually House stops eating it entirely. Then Wilson turns to him with concerned brown eyes, the angles of his face washed in flickering lights from the television, and asks, “Are you alright?” in that sincere way of his.

So, bust.

••• 

He’s smarter with his next attempt. He dawdles in the kitchen while Wilson gets into his pajamas and sits down on the couch, faithfully at his usual spot in the center. 

Smug, House sits himself at the right end again, at least a foot of space between them. He reaches for the remote to turn on the TV, and _feels_ Wilson staring at him. He turns his head to Wilson and sees that he’s wearing a look somewhere between bewilderment and fear. 

“What?” House snarls angrily. 

Concern flashes across Wilson’s face, hurt lurking just beneath. House’s leg aches. “Nothing,” Wilson says calmly. 

Wilson goes to bed early that night, and the cat goes with him. 

••• 

It’s funny, how House’s painstaking efforts to create distance in their evenings seem to force the opposite from him in the mornings. It’s as though keeping away from Wilson at night leaves him with some sort of terrible proximity hangover. 

Perhaps it’s the mild disinhibition of morning grogginess that compels him to stay in the kitchen while Wilson makes his coffee and eats his breakfast rather than keep behind the counter. Everything is quieter and easier in the haze of sleepiness. 

It’s easier, until Wilson leaves and House is sitting there obsessing over things like his own deliberate movements to reach behind and over Wilson for a mug. He doesn’t press _creepily_ close, or even oddly close, but he’s hyper aware of where his chest brushes Wilson’s back and where his arm touches Wilson’s fluffy hair. 

He eventually starts handing Wilson his plates for breakfast, his utensils, so that their hands brush. He makes sure they’re standing in a corner of the kitchen while they have their morning bicker, so that they’re closer than if they were across the room from one another. 

He feels—out of control, worse by the day, but Wilson is seemingly unfazed, doesn’t notice anything different. House wonders if it is any different, if this is their normal behavior and he's now been made aware of it. 

His daily craving for Vicodin gets worse around this point of obsessing in the hour after Wilson leaves each morning. When he starts doing his and Wilson's laundry in response to the craving, he refuses to read too deeply into why the washing and folding of their clothes soothes him most. 

••• 

Wilson finally notices. He doesn’t say anything, because he’s kind and forgiving and patient, but he notices.

“I think it’s Cameron who is most upset with Foreman for firing Thirteen,” Wilson tells House, as if House is meant to voice concern for his former colleague’s emotions. “No surprise there but it’s irritating because she’s too nice to actually do anything about it and I think _she_ thinks she’s not being passive aggressive. Except she is and Chase is too in love with her to care, which is—”

“You’re in the way of my caffeine,” House grumbles and places his hands just lightly on Wilson’s waist to pass by him.

Wilson is dead silent. 

House’s brain hasn’t caught up—which he later worries is an advancement of this new morning affliction—and he’s already retrieved a mug and begun pouring his coffee when he realizes. 

House takes deep breaths and finishes pouring his coffee, because reacting too much would validate whatever Wilson thinks has just happened and he needs to de-escalate this now. He takes a sip and glances over at Wilson, who is obviously staring right at him before snapping his eyes to somewhere just above House’s head. 

“If there’s a ghost above me, tell them I have no interest in visiting my Christmas past.” 

Wilson slowly looks back at House’s face. His cheeks are very slightly pink and his eyes look so fucking concerned and his mouth is parted in confusion and House—lets his thoughts slam to a halt like a car screeching to an abrupt stop on the highway.

“Ha,” Wilson says, voice just slightly unsteady. “You’re no Scrooge. His soul _could_ be saved.”

“Scrooge had a spontaneous psychotic episode. I’ve already had mine. I don’t plan on a Christmas special repeat.”

This gets him a small smile and then the moment’s passed and soon enough Wilson is out the door. House feels like he’s going to cave in on himself if he doesn’t _do_ something, so he peruses medical boards on the Internet and two days later, sends an email to his old team under a pseudonym with the subject line _Fabry disease_. 

He sends a second email titled _Urgent appointment needed_ to Nolan. 

••• 

“Dr. House.” 

“What?” House mutters, staring intently at the floorboards. 

“It’s been twenty minutes,” Nolan points out. “You asked for this appointment.” 

House considers making some bullshit excuse up, or better yet, simply storming out. He briefly entertains the idea of cancelling all future appointments, too, and making use of the Vicodin bottle burning a hole in his pocket. There was a reason, though, he didn’t just keep it stashed away in his old apartment, a secret to abuse and conceal. 

He blows out a breath and looks up at Nolan with a bitter smirk. “That fallacy we talked about a few weeks ago.”

Nolan frowns slightly, and seems to be thinking back. House can see the moment it hits him, because his eyebrows raise in slight surprise and it occurs to House that he _did_ believe House’s final word on the subject at that time, and that his intent really was never to mess with House’s head. Which would make this entire breakdown organic, brought upon by the simple trigger of the subject itself.

“Yes,” Nolan says finally. “Go on.”

“You said I didn’t need it explained to me. Explain it to me.” 

“Can you tell me what’s happened first?”

“Nothing’s _happened_ ,” House snaps, rubbing at his leg. “I just—explain the fucking fallacy to me.” He blows a breath out. “Please,” he says, flicking his gaze up to Nolan for long enough to make eye contact before he returns to staring at stained wood floorboards. 

“Something has to have happened, or changed. Internally, if not externally.” Every single one of Nolan’s words are carefully measured.

House grits his teeth. “Look. It’s like a diagnosis. I need to diagnose my...relationship with Wilson. Or whatever. And to do that I need to lay out all the symptoms, trace back the causes, the history. So I’m asking for a consult. I’m asking you to tell me what you see, what you think.” He looks at Nolan again, feeling frustratingly vulnerable. 

Nolan nods slowly. “I appreciate that. But I can’t diagnose _your_ relationships with people. I can’t tell you—”

“I’m not asking you to!” House snaps. “I’m the diagnostician here. I don’t want to know your diagnosis. That’s irrelevant, and probably wrong. I want you to tell me the symptoms _you_ see so _I_ can figure out what they mean. And the fallacy is a huge symptom, because it means I’ve missed something or I’ve interpreted something incorrectly.”

Nolan looks exceptionally pensive, even for him. He regards House, eyes a little far away like he’s deep in thought. “Alright,” he says slowly. He sits back in his chair, apparently still thinking.

House rubs his jaw aggressively, fighting the urge to roll his eyes.

“Wilson,” Nolan starts, and House drops his gaze to the floorboards once more, closing his eyes to listen more carefully, “is your closest friend. Your only friend, you’ve told me more than once. An extremely personal and unique bond which has lasted trials that would have caused irreparable damage between even family members, or married couples.”

“This isn’t the fallacy,” House protests.

“I think it’s a symptom,” Nolan counters. “And an important precursor to the fallacy.” 

House scowls and gestures for Nolan to continue. 

“You are close enough that many often mistake your relationship as something intimate, romantic or otherwise. Indeed, you yourself are _frequently_ prone to making sarcastic or humorous overtones acknowledging or suggesting this.” 

House gets up then and moves over the large window at the other side of the room. “I’m fine,” he mutters, when Nolan pauses. “Helps me think. Keep going.” Pollution is high today, he notes absently, eyeing the brown-gray muddiness of the horizon. 

“When I pointed this out, with the implication that there was more to this habit, you shut me down immediately—but without much reason.”

House tightens his knuckles on his cane and walks up and down the length of the window twice before Nolan continues. 

“I pressed for a reason. I pressed you to explain to me why your jokes and overtures were not reflective of an attraction to or relationship with Wilson. I honestly expected you to call me a moron and explain in no uncertain terms that you simply were not attracted to Wilson. That would have ended the matter definitively. You didn’t.” 

House huffs, and moves over to the bookcase instead. Nolan has paused again so he waves an impatient hand. 

“Instead, interestingly, you intimated that were Wilson a woman, things quote ‘might be different’ end-quote. This suggested that Wilson’s being a man was the problem, which implied that your sexuality—heterosexual—was defining here. At risk of a slippery slope, there’s also some implication that all things considered otherwise, you do find Wilson attractive save for his gender.” 

House sees where this is going and wonders briefly why he’s having Nolan explain this to him, when he very well _knows_ —but then he also knows that he’d never be able to walk himself through this kind of torture on his own. 

“Then, of course, you should be able to confirm to me that you _are_ heterosexual. If you could, paired with the declaration that Wilson’s being a man was the problem, it would be as definitive as simply stating no attraction to him.” 

Nolan takes a long pause. “But you couldn’t do that either.” 

House sighs and turns his head up to the feeling. “Which makes my statement fallacious: that the _only_ thing preventing— _something_ with Wilson is that he is a man.”

“Yes,” Nolan says quietly. “It means you have been unable to actually give me any information _really_ suggesting you aren’t attracted to Wilson. You can’t tell me you’re exclusively heterosexual, you can’t tell me any practical reason not to have interest—your long-standing friendship, his personal beliefs, his own relationship history, his appearance, even—and you have avoided entirely saying simply that you aren’t attracted to him, which would put everything to rest and make all this other elaborate rationalizing irrelevant.”

House feels nauseous and doesn’t like that at all. He goes back to his chair. “Finish it out,” he grits between clenched teeth. “Go on. Ask it.” 

Nolan shifts in his seat. “Are or are you not attracted, at the very least, to Wilson?” 

House knocks his forehead against his cane. “I don’t know. Maybe.” 

Nolan takes a deep, slow inhale. “Okay.” 

“Not okay!” House exclaims, snapping his head up to stare at Nolan. “It is not okay! Two months ago he was just Wilson! Except, apparently, that might not have been true. The issue isn’t that I’ve suddenly woken up with an eye for his sweet ass, which would be one thing—a byproduct of cohabitation or whatever. No! The issue is I can’t can’t tell you if for the entire time I’ve known Wilson, I might have—”

He cuts himself off viciously. Nolan is looking at him sympathetically, the way he hasn’t in a long time with House. It makes House’s skin crawl. “So the diagnosis is inconclusive,” Nolan says diplomatically. 

House curls his lip. “I don’t make _inconclusive_ diagnoses. I’m not a hack. It has a name, whatever that name is. And I’m going to figure it out.” 

Nolan regards him again, and writes something down in his notebook. “I hope you do. And I hope you let me know when you do.”

House nods sullenly. “This is your fault,” he says petulantly but it’s not. It would have come up eventually. 

As always, Nolan is polite enough not to point this out. Instead he says, “But be careful, Dr. House. Don’t do anything rash and don’t let it spiral into self-hatred or hatred for Wilson. He is your friend first.” 

House grits his teeth because things are getting too sentimental now. “Right,” he says brusquely. “We should move on.”

“How are you doing otherwise?” Nolan asks without missing a beat. 

House relinquishes the Vicodin bottle, and confesses his slip in interfering with the team’s case the previous week, and he leaves with direction to reintegrate at PPTH, feeling more conflicted about _everything_ than he has in months. 

••• 

“I guess we can go into work together now,” Wilson says when House tells him the news over their lemon pepper fettuccine that night. “We can just take my car.”

House hesitates in responding and Wilson backtracks immediately. “No, sorry. Your bike. You’ll want to take that. I’m sure you’ve missed it.” 

“No,” House says, off kilter. “No. The bike is—high risk behavior. And it’ll be easier to follow a routine this way. If I’m…sticking with yours.”

Wilson looks _pleased_ for a moment and House wants to bitch at him, but then the expression is gone and Wilson is slurping up a forkful of pasta instead. “Okay,” Wilson says, once he’s swallowed. “Whatever is best for you.” 

“But what happens when I have to stay late on a case, overnight even? And you’re itching to go home because you’re spoiled on your cozy 9 to 5?” 

Wilson only attempts to look annoyed which is offensive. “I can just stay,” Wilson says. “It’s no problem. It’s not like I’ve never had to stay overnight for a patient and you do it often enough. Your fellows do it all the time. It can’t be _that_ hard.” 

“Say that when you’re crying on the sofa in your office, missing your fussy little duvet,” House tells him. 

“It’s not fussy,” Wilson protests. The cat jumps up next to him then, making an admittedly convincing play for a bite of food. Wilson’s a sap so he gives in immediately. “We need to name her.”

House shifts restlessly on the couch, noticing that they are once again settled together in the center next to one another. “ _I_ will name her when I see fit.”

Wilson gives him a sidelong look. He leans forward for his seltzer—his unspoken commitment to supporting House’s substance abstinence is worthy of a Hallmark movie—and his shirt rides up just an inch above the waistband of his plaid pajama pants. The shirt is a little baggy too, the collar slipping slightly to the side on his shoulder. 

House hauls himself up from the couch abruptly enough that Wilson seems startled. “Done?” House asks aggressively, gesturing to Wilson’s cleared plate.

“Uh...yeah?” Wilson sounds cautious, like he’s speaking to a scared animal. Idly, House wonders if Wilson is more disturbed by House’s sudden movement or by his unprecedented offer to take Wilson’s plate to the sink. The thought makes him smile slightly, and Wilson seems genuinely frightened by that.

Counterproductively, Wilson follows him after a beat into the kitchen. “Are you okay?” At some point, House is going to count how many times Wilson asks him that in any given week and bully him with the undoubtedly high number. “You sure your session with Nolan went alright?” 

“Of course it did,” House snaps, dumping the dishes in the sink. “He’s agreed to let me go back to medicine, how could it not have gone well?” 

Wilson leans against the archway into the kitchen, hip cocked, arms crossed over his chest. “Because you’re being a bastard.” 

“I’m always a bastard, Wilson,” House tells him honestly. 

“Fine. You’re being a Bastard with a capital B,” Wilson shoots back. He looks pissed, and there are dark circles under his eyes, the lines of his face more pronounced than usual. House wonders how many patients he lost today. 

“You want to play cards or is it bedtime early tonight?”

Wilson blinks at the abrupt pivot. “Cards sound good,” he says cautiously. “House…” 

“Cards,” House orders and Wilson seems to let it go. 

Cards are House’s preferred activity these days because they _have_ to be across from one another rather than side by side in order to play. The distance is necessary, and he doesn’t have to force it, so Wilson can’t notice. 

“Let me know when Cuddy says you can start back,” Wilson tells House when they’ve decided to turn in for the night, “so we can get the carpooling all sorted.” 

House nods at him, and Wilson hesitates, then gives his shoulder a quick squeeze before heading to his own bedroom, the door shutting with a quiet _snick_. 

••• 

The thing is, House ponders once again as he stares up at the darkened ceiling of Wilson’s apartment.

The thing is, before Wilson, when House was in his twenties and early thirties, House slept with men at least frequently as he did women, if not more.

Then he met Wilson.

And he stopped sleeping with men all at once and altogether. 

••• 

“How is living with Wilson?” Cameron inquires, as if House might have returned to PPTH just so she can force small talk on him. 

“Shouldn’t you be doing the LP?” House says, moving right past her as he leaves the office and heads down the hall with the cafeteria in mind. 

Cameron follows him, undeterred. “Chase is doing it,” she tells him, a note of irritation in her voice. “Foreman is running more blood work.” 

“What a show of solidarity from the boss,” House says snidely. “Doing the grunt work with the little man.”

“Well, he _said_ that’s what he was doing,” Cameron mumbles, which is interesting but not really interesting enough for House to pursue right now. 

House gets to the elevators and attempts to close the doors before she can join him, but she slides in anyway and glares at him. “Come on,” she implores. “It must be nice to talk to someone who is a friend after so long just talking to psychiatrists and psychiatric patients.”

“A lot of assumptions there,” House says. “You know what they say happens when you assume.”

“House.”

“God, I feel like you just get worse every time I see you. Like if someone did an exponential graph of how much you care, the growth by day would be through the roof. Someone should experiment on you.” 

The elevators ding open and Cameron follows him right out. “Pot, kettle,” she says. “Only your graph would be of cruelty.” 

“It’s been two weeks since I came back and I haven’t felt the need to track you down for a heart to heart, why do you think that it is? I don’t need to talk to anyone, Cameron, least of all you. And I haven’t just talked to shrinks and psych patients. I have Wilson.” 

“Okay,” Cameron says brightly. “Brings us right back to my question. How is living with Wilson going?” 

House isn’t sure how they’ve ended up talking about Wilson, sure he’s been trapped into it by Cameron, but it makes him feel even crankier. “It’s excellent. He’s a gracious host. He should consider hotel management if this doctor thing doesn’t work out.” They’re nearing the cafeteria now. “Why do you care?”

Cameron ignores the question. “I’m a little surprised,” she says cryptically as they get into line with their trays. 

“Why?” House asks before he can stop himself, feeling somewhere between intrigued and affronted. 

“Well, you kicked him out the first time you two tried living together, right? I figured there was some sort of incompatibility. Which would make sense on his end—living with you sounds like a trial in hell,” she’s carefully picking through the salads now, “but not really on your end. Anyway.” 

House frowns at the dressings in front of him, tray still empty. “It’s not a trial in hell,” House says awkwardly.

Cameron stops and peers at him. “Yeah, I got that. You said it was going well. I’m glad.” She squints, the way she does when she’s trying to figure him out. “Why did you kick him out the first time?” 

“He smelled,” House snaps. Wilson did not smell bad, he's actually always smelled good—expensive detergents and soaps and colognes—but he had just been everywhere, all at once, inescapable. House doesn’t plan on sharing any of this with Cameron. She gives him a disapproving look, but just then a worker behind the counter says something to her and as soon as she turns her head, House abandons his tray and moves as swiftly from the cafeteria as his cane will allow. 

••• 

House’s leg takes a turn a few days later. It’s from all the walking required at the hospital. Even in his reduced role, it’s more than he’s demanded of his leg since the detox and despite rallying for the past couple weeks, he finds himself trying not to scream once he and Wilson have finished dinner that night.

Wilson goes to use the restroom and to change into pajamas after he clears their plates. House stays frozen on the couch, feeling like if he breathes too deeply it’ll push the pain in his leg past his breaking point. 

”I was thinking—House?” Wilson’s voice goes from sleepy roommate to concerned doctor in seconds. “House.” 

Wilson is crouched by House’s feet, hands hovering by House’s knee, then his shoulder, though he doesn’t touch. 

“I want a Vicodin,” House confesses, meeting Wilson’s eye in the hope to convey that he isn’t asking for one.

“I know,” Wilson murmurs. “I know you do.” His hands flutter uselessly around House again. “Let me get the heating pad.”

“Wait! Wait,” House says before Wilson can leave. “Just—wait.”

Wilson stops his movements to get up, watching House cautiously before settling more comfortably into his spot. He’s seated on the floor with his side pressed into the front of the couch next to House’s legs, one arm resting on the couch cushion, and his toes just barely touch the edge of House’s shoe. “Okay.” Just like that. Total acceptance of what House needs, no questions asked.

“Jesus,” House mutters to himself. 

“Thought you weren’t a big fan of his.”

“Blaspheming is the best variety of cursing,” House says, ending in a sharp breath. 

Wilson murmurs something, too low to hear but obviously meant to comfort. A year ago House would have berated him for it, tore him down with words and then vindictively downed four Vicodin in one go to prove how fine he was. He closes his eyes and listens to the soft cadence of Wilson’s voice for a moment. 

“I’m sorry I kicked you out,” House says suddenly. “The first time. A few years ago.”

Wilson looks thoroughly thrown for a loop, eyebrows creasing and mouth parting the way he does when he’s confused. House stops looking at his face. “What?” 

House sighs. “I—kicked you out. When you came to me after Julie.” 

Wilson’s fingers tap on the cushion a few times. “Oh.” He pauses. “But you changed your mind immediately, remember? Then you started attempting to _keep_ me there. Through several nefarious means.”

“Brilliant means,” House insists, balling his hands into fists when the pain surges again. When the wave passes he continues, “I know that, idiot. But when I originally asked you to leave. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have.” 

“I was annoying you,” Wilson says uncertainly. “You said it wasn’t working.” 

“I lied,” House tells him. “That wasn’t—you weren’t—anyway. Damn it, Wilson, how often do you get an apology from me anyway? If the context doesn’t suit you just pretend I’m apologizing for some other grievance I’m sure you have lined up against me.”

Wilson laughs slightly. “Alright, alright. You are forgiven.” He waves his hand magnanimously.

“Good. I’m redeemed. A new man.” His leg spasms again and he bites the back of his hand to keep from screaming. 

“House,” Wilson says, very softly.

“Mm,” House says, still biting into his own skin. There’s a hand at his knee then, on his good leg, just an unassuming, solid presence. 

“I need to go get the heating pad,” Wilson says soothingly. “Okay? I’ll come right back with it.” 

_I’m not a child_ , he should spit. He doesn’t. He nods and tries his best not to count the seconds it takes for Wilson to retrieve the heating pad from beneath the bathroom sink, then plug it into the wall nearest the couch and bring it over. 

Wilson settles it over House’s lap and lingers awkwardly for a moment before apparently deciding it’s safe to sit beside House—right next to him. It shouldn’t feel like such a relief to have him so close after all the time House has spent recently keeping an ocean of space between them on this stupid fucking couch. 

“I’m sorry for kicking you out, too,” Wilson says. “With the neighbor a couple weeks ago.”

“I deserved that.”

“Morally, ethically, responsibly, yeah.” Wilson pauses. “Personally, no.” House’s brain is too fried by the pain to analyze that thoroughly, but it makes something warm settle somewhere in his chest. It’s probably just the heating pad, he tells himself. Wilson stretches into a yawn and now House _looks_ at the narrow strip of skin shown between his waistband and the hem of his shirt. He’s _looking_. 

House squeezes his eyes shut and tries to lean away from Wilson, but that just makes his leg hurt so badly he almost doubles over.

“Hey, hey,” Wilson says quickly, grabbing his arm and easing him to relax back against the couch. House tenses his shoulder until Wilson lets go of him. “Are you ever going to tell me what’s wrong?”

“My leg hurts, asshole. If you’ve suddenly forgotten the past oh say, fifteen years then I’m concerned and would recommend a head MRI stat.” 

Wilson huffs. “I’m very clearly not talking about the leg.”

“Then you’re confused. I’m just peachy aside from the debilitating injury. Confusion—again, head MRI.”

The cat jumps up then and settles in Wilson’s lap, her face turned towards House, purring contentedly. The heating pad is starting to work, not nearly as well as a Vicodin would have, but enough that House no longer feels he’s at war with his diaphragm over the urge to scream. 

“I can’t imagine what you would try to hide from me after all this. It’s...astounding the lengths you go to, to make sure there’s always just _something_ unknowable, something you can keep all hidden away.” 

House frowns down at his own hands. “You and Nolan should grab a coffee sometime, see who’s better at coming up with snazzy psychobabble sound bites to make me feel guilty.” 

Wilson sighs and scrubs a hand over his eyes. “Well, sounds like your leg is better. I think it’s bedtime for us both.” 

“Hey,” House says, before Wilson gets up. “Thanks.” He turns his head and forces himself to look at Wilson’s face, because he can’t offer much but he can offer this, a morsel of sincerity.

“Yeah.” Wilson’s face is so familiar to House. He can see the shiny, pretty twenty-something he met all those years ago wrapped up in this face before him—one and the same, like he can spot every single change and still notice no differences at all. 

Wilson seems to be considering giving House’s shoulder one last squeeze, hand extended out once he stands up, but he appears to think better of it. He gives House one last searching look and disappears into his bedroom. 

••• 

The thing is, the night House and Wilson met, after he got him out on bail, they got piss drunk at the nearest bar. After that, they stumbled back to the hotel and House walked Wilson to his room, just to make sure he got in safely. 

He remembers that twenty five year old Wilson was pink cheeked even sober and when he was four shots and three beers in, his cheeks were bright red, lips redder. He remembers twenty five year old Wilson had glossy, wavy brown hair that fell in his eyes and his eyes sparkled like some sort of cartoon woodland animal.

The thing is, when they got to Wilson’s door, Wilson put his hands on House’s shoulders and leaned in, very close, and said “Thanks,” and disappeared into his room.

The thing is, House can still remember the exact mix of horrible alcohol and bar food on Wilson’s breath. He can feel it on his mouth when he closes his eyes. 

••• 

So, Wilson was hot a couple decades ago. Practically _everyone_ was hot when they were in their twenties, gravity still the loser in the game and collagen plentiful. 

The logic is unshakeable and House is making coffee feeling like maybe the diagnosis for his problem isn’t going to end in total life ruin, when a harried Wilson comes bustling into the kitchen.

“I overslept, damn it,” Wilson grumbles, flying around, searching the cabinet for a travel mug and shoving an actual English muffin in the pocket of his slacks. 

Wilson’s shirt is halfway unbuttoned still, his tie undone and framing the gaping of his shirt like a rude highlight. Wilson buttons and ties himself up quickly, still rambling on about something painfully boring. He clearly was in a last minute rush, because his shirt is conspicuously more rumpled than is his usual preference. 

“House? Hey. House!” Wilson waves a hand in front of him. 

“What?”

“We have to go, come on.” Wilson steps backward out of the kitchen, grabbing his suit jacket from the back of the couch. “Are you okay? Is it your leg?” 

House scowls and hobbles over to Wilson. “My leg is fine. Stop babying me. Let’s go.” 

“I think it’s impossible to baby you,” Wilson grouches and grabs his keys.

“Wait!” House says before Wilson can open the door. 

“What now?” Wilson says exasperatedly.

“Unless you’re looking to give everyone a show,” House says, and steps forward to do up two buttons Wilson missed, just over his sternum. 

Wilson stares at him. House whacks his shin with his cane and says, “Wasn’t it you about to fly into a hissy fit because we aren’t going to be fifteen minutes early to the hospital?”

Wilson gapes for a minute, but it seems the Type A in him wins over and he frowns before hurrying out the door without another word. House locks up. 

The shirt Wilson is wearing is a muted lavender, and with painful dismay House realizes he really is actually checking out Wilson’s ass as they make their way down the hall. 

••• 

“I’m in love with him,” House says brusquely.

“Really? How can you be sure?” 

“No, no,” House argues. “You won’t get sonnets or poetic declarations of love. No. It’s enough to just _say_ it. You’ll have to believe that’s practically a soliloquy coming from me.”

Nolan laughs, the bastard. “I suppose I do. So what are you going to do?”


	2. II.

••• 

“What the fuck do you mean, you’re moving out? House!” 

“It means,” House says patiently, flicking through the channels on the television with ease, “that you’ve done your job well, Jimmy. You’re an excellent caretaker, I’d give you a gold star if I could, but it’s time for me to leave the nest. Spread my wings, see the world.” 

Wilson stands in front of the TV, hands on his hips. House turns his head away. Wilson with hands on his hips has begun evoking involuntarily the line of thought that House wishes desperately he could still get on his knees. This gay epiphany has reached critical mass of late, further proving House’s point that he needs to _leave_.

“Hey, asshole,” Wilson fumes. “I’m talking to you! Nolan called and—”

“He _what_.” 

“—and said you might be trying to do something drastic. He didn’t say much but he said I should be prepared and that you’ve been given explicit instruction by him not to do something stupid until you’ve had a chance to talk at your next appointment!” 

House sits up from where he’s been reclining on the couch, scowling. “Nolan’s a quack,” he says stubbornly.

“Then why keep going to him?”

House ignores that. “And he had no right calling you.”

“He did. He didn’t share any personal information. He said that as I’m your support system right now, I should be made aware that you were feeling impulsive and to, I repeat, encourage you to wait until you’ve had another appointment with him.” 

“Repeating yourself doesn’t make it sound any nicer.” 

“It doesn’t have to be nice. God _damn_ it, House. You don’t wanna tell me what’s been your problem the past month, that’s fine! But you will not let yourself slip right into destruction again because of it, not on my fucking watch.” Wilson has been more pissed off at House, several times over, but this is the most confused and frantic House has ever seen him. 

“Nolan wants to be right,” House allows, in a poor effort at diplomacy. “But he can’t always be right. He’s operating on what he’s seen of me in his psych ward. And that was great, when I was there. But I’m here now.”

“Yes—here and safe, but just barely. Here and safe because you’re with me!”

“I can’t keep myself safe?”

“Stop it,” Wilson says right away. “Stop it. I—when you’re here then I can make sure you’re keeping yourself safe and I know you’re safe and then I can fucking sleep at night!” 

House drops his eyes. The room goes quiet and from his peripheral, House sees Wilson raise a hand, probably to rub at the back of his neck. 

“Don’t you want me gone?” House argues this time. “Aren’t you glad to see the back of me, get your place back to yourself? No litter box? Couch available 24/7? Bathroom returned to its sanctuary of privacy?” 

Wilson flounders and House brings his eyes back up, curious. “This isn’t about me,” Wilson mumbles, a weak and unexpected deflection from a question House assumed had a very simple answer. He comes over and sits down beside House, scrubbing a hand over his face. 

It’s odd, the feeling House gets in his chest when he thinks _I want to kiss him right now_ , because it’s a feeling House recognizes a million times over but has never been able to pair with any specific want or thought. A million times over he’s wanted Wilson in one way or another. A million times over. 

House stands up from the couch, going to stand in front of the TV himself now. “The best course of action is for me to leave.”

Wilson looks up at him, face tired again. “I think you think that,” he says carefully. “I really think you think that. But if I can’t—if you can’t tell me _why_ , if you can’t be transparent then I can’t feel sure it really _is_ the best course of action.” 

“Why do you care if it is?”

Wilson scoffs. “Don’t do that. Don’t ask stupid questions just to derail the conversation.”

The cat butts in then, meowing loudly. Wilson heaves a long-suffering sigh. “She’s hungry,” House snaps, and stalks over to her bowl just inside the kitchen, opening a can of food from the stack on the counter and placing it inside her bowl. 

Once House is standing back in front of the TV—still too afraid to sit on even the other side of the couch—Wilson crosses his arms. “Can you tell me why leaving this apartment will make the difference at least?” 

House smirks. “That’s the same question, smartass.”

“It’s not,” Wilson insists, pouting petulantly. The feeling in House’s stomach the expression invokes is the worst, now associated with urges so tender and sweet they make him want to bury himself six feet under. “Is it...the architecture?”

House laughs.

Wilson glares. “Your bed? I have another bedroom. I can get you a bed. A piano, we can get a piano. No? It’s not any of those.”

House is so amused by Wilson’s flailing in the dark for a reason he’s not expecting his next guess. 

“Is it me?”

House feels himself blanch, can’t stop his eyes dropping to stare at the floor. 

“Oh, shit,” Wilson says. 

“Wilson,” House starts, and can’t figure out a single damn thing to say. 

Wilson doesn’t even look hurt. He looks stunned into pure bewilderment, unable to have a real emotional reaction, as if his brain can’t figure out what it’s supposed to do with the information. “I suppose that answers why there isn’t an alternative. Why there isn’t a fix,” Wilson mutters. “We could get a whole new apartment, suited to your every whim and it wouldn’t matter if the issue is your roommate.” 

House keeps quiet. 

Wilson pushes a hand through his hair, and now his face is starting to look sad. House’s chest _and_ stomach are all fucked up at this point and he always knew love was for suckers. “Well. I stand by what I said. We’re following Nolan’s guidance and you aren’t leaving until you’ve talked with him at his next appointment. In the meantime...we’ll just, uh, stay out of each other’s hair. I guess you need space? You can—you can start taking your bike into work.”

“Wilson.”

Wilson stands up and offers House one of his patented kind eyed smiles. “It’s okay, House. We’re okay. Cohabitation is hard, right? I’ll just—I’ll see you at lunch tomorrow.” Once again Wilson seems to want to reach out, but the movement is aborted right away, and Wilson just slips back into his room. 

The cat follows him in again. 

••• 

House steals Wilson’s car keys at half past two in the morning, when he’s sure Wilson is dead asleep. He drives and drives and drives, until he eventually finds himself back at the apartment and the dashboard clock reads 4:30 AM. 

When House gets back inside, he deposits the keys carefully back into the stupid little ceramic dish Wilson keeps in the entry way and stands there awkwardly, unsure where he wants to go next.

He inevitably finds himself haunting Wilson’s doorway and when he sees the shifting of Wilson’s body under his covers, he realizes Wilson’s awake, and wonders how long he has been. “I’m sorry,” House ventures, unsure which of his countless crimes he’s apologizing for this time, and feeling vaguely annoyed on principle at how often he’s found himself repentant recently.

“Come here.”

Hesitantly, House steps inside Wilson’s bedroom and sits carefully at the foot of his bed, rolling his cane between his palms and obstinately not looking at Wilson, who apparently takes _off_ his pajama top while he sleeps. 

“I’m sorry,” Wilson says. “You’re supposed to be getting better. You’re supposed to want independence. You’re supposed to have opinions that aren’t blurred by addiction. You aren’t—obligated to me.”

House mulls that over. “You aren’t obligated to me. And yet you’ve still played a truly superb mother hen to me.” 

“Yeah, well.” 

There’s a long bout of silence and House struggles with the now free train of thought incessantly forcing him to consider that maybe he’d enjoy the reality where he and Wilson share a bed, where they’re fast asleep side by side and unbothered by so many unspoken, unsure things. House sighs, and reaches out to give Wilson’s ankle a brief squeeze over his covers then retreats back to the couch in the living room. 

••• 

Wilson has already left for work when House rouses himself from his measly two hours of sleep. Wilson’s never been anything if not a man of his word. He’s also left a plate of hash browns and breakfast sausages in the microwave for House. 

House stares at the plate for a good two minutes, then shuts off his pager and calls the number he told Nolan he’d never use, because he wasn’t a needy bitch of a patient. 

“Dr. House,” Nolan answers, sounding relieved. 

“How did you know it was me?” House asks, suspicious. “Wilson,” he hisses, before Nolan can answer, because of course it was Wilson.

“He gave me your number so I could have it in my contacts,” Nolan says, sounding only slightly apologetic. “So I would know it was you and not just some random number. So that I would pick up.”

“Yeah, yeah,” House grumbles. “Fucking _Wilson_.”

“Are you still living at his apartment? Have you left?”

House harrumphs and starts pacing around said apartment. “Haven’t left. Wilson threw a bitch fit worthy of any daytime soap and I decided to stay. For now.”

“And this is displeasing to you?

House rolls his eyes and wishes Nolan could see him do it. “No, I told you my greatest desire right now was to be far away from this apartment just for shits and giggles. I’m just jumping with joy to be guilted into staying for the time being.” 

“I still don’t believe you’ve really thought out whether this is the right choice, or what you want.” 

“It’s the correct treatment! For the diagnosis.” 

Nolan sighs. “Relationships can’t be diagnoses.” Maybe Nolan can hear how close House’s head is to fucking exploding because he relents, “But I understand it helps you contextualize things. To be fair, you never did tell me what you decided was the diagnosis itself. Your being in love with him?”

House doesn’t like hearing it said aloud. “I—the diagnosis is...unrequited...love.” He kicks the sofa to relieve his feelings at the absurdity of this conversation. 

“Unrequited?” Nolan hums in that thoughtful way that makes House want to tell Nolan that psychiatrists are fake medical doctors. “What makes you say it’s unrequited? Can you say that without asking Wilson himself how he feels? Do you have evidence to support this?” 

“Evid—” House starts, cut off by his own disbelief. “This isn’t about evidence! I don’t live in a fucking gay rom com, Nolan. I live in _reality_ , where I’m a mean old cripple who has been in love with his best friend for nearly two decades without realizing it, and in the meantime I’ve drowned myself in actual prostitutes watching said best friend go through three wives, countless girlfriends, need I go on! The treatment is _distance_.”

“None of that proves it’s unrequited,” Nolan insists. 

“You are just insufferable,” House complains. “Even if it was—returned, initiating some sort of relationship with Wilson has to be the worst fucking idea I’ve heard.”

“Why?”

House kicks the sofa again, and wishes he had his ball to toss around in agitation. “You’re a bad shrink if you don’t know.”

“I’m _your_ shrink,” Nolan says calmly. “And as your shrink my formal opinion is that I don’t think it would be a terrible idea. I think it might even be healthy. It’s true your dynamic with Wilson is unconventional. It’s also deeply important to your quality of life. A romantic relationship might just reinforce its benefits. I don’t think it would change as many things as you might think. I’d imagine it’d just enhance them.”

“Stop,” House says, voice low. “It’s not an option.” 

“Because you don’t want to pursue it as an option, or because you are afraid to pursue it as an option? They’re different things, Dr. House.”

House hangs up on him.

••• 

“Your team was on my ass about you not answering your pager,” Wilson announces when he walks in, a good two hours later than when he usually gets back from the hospital. “And since you didn’t even call Cuddy to confirm an absence, it was up to me to make excuses and assure them you weren’t dead. Which, by the way, I had no way of knowing for certain.” He takes off his scarf and coat and drops his keys in their dish. 

“Surprise. I’m alive. I’m sure they’ll all be so disappointed to hear,” House says sardonically, spreading his arms wide.

Wilson is plainly unimpressed. He’s frowning and House braces himself for a lecture, but Wilson just sighs. “How was your day?” He moves to the kitchen, filling up the teapot and opening a cabinet to rifle through his embarrassing tea box, before selecting a packet.

Fucking _Wilson_. Clearly worn out and not over their last conversation, but kind and caring enough to attempt to make good on his promise that this is all _okay_ , that House hasn’t done anything _wrong_. House grits his teeth, and deflates. “I named the cat,” House offers. 

Wilson looks up then, actual mild interest in his face. “Oh?” 

“Limmy,” House tells him, and on cue, Limmy gives a soft meow and appears from the bathroom, making a wobbly beeline for Wilson. 

Wilson raises a brow questioningly.

“Short for lymphoreticulosis,” House explains. 

It takes a millisecond but Wilson’s face drops right into that pursed lip, twitching cheek expression that means he wants to laugh at House’s joke but is trying to maintain an air of sensibility at the same time. “Cat scratch fever. You named our cat after a disease.” 

House’s brain sticks on the word choice, but he works to keep his voice casual. “Are you objecting to it?”

The tea kettle goes off and Wilson’s moves to pour the water into a mug, dropping his tea bag in. “No,” he admits, blowing cool air over the mug and giving House just the briefest of fond looks, before he turns away. “I’m gonna turn in early, then.” He sounds uneasy, but moves without faltering towards his room. 

“Wilson.”

It’s somewhere between thrilling and painful, how Wilson stops immediately, instantly, at the sound of House’s voice. He’s just outside the doorway to his room, and he doesn’t turn around, but he stops. For House. “What?” 

House bristles. “God, do you have to make everything so hard? So complicated? Do you have to drag out every single fucking emotion, air it out, make sure it’s saturated into everything? Can’t you just—?”

“Just what, House!” Wilson whirls around, setting his mug on the nearest bookshelf and stalking over to stand by the couch, hands on his hips. “I’m the one making everything hard, I’m the one making everything complicated?”

House glares. “Right, because how dare I suggest, that I, a grown fucking man, might like to regain some fucking independence! Yes, that’s making everything difficult, not your kicked puppy reaction to it!”

“Oh fuck off!” Wilson hisses. “If it was just that you were settled and ready to leave, just wanted independence again, I really wouldn’t have cared less!”

House scoffs. 

“I wouldn’t!” Wilson insists, flailing his arms about in apparent gesticulation now. “But that’s not what’s going on!”

House stands up from the couch, picking up his cane and moving a few paces back to stand on the other side, so that he and Wilson are glaring at each other from across the length of it. “Isn’t it? What do you think is going on then? Please, I’d love to hear your idiotic thought process on this.” 

“Well, I don’t know what the real problem is,” Wilson says icily. “Only that you’ve been off for _weeks_ , and you won’t tell me why and it’s freaking me out and it’s most definitely why you’re leaving and I can’t—I can’t figure out what it is. Or why you wouldn’t tell me.”

House scowls harder and refuses to bend. 

Wilson presses a hand over his eyes. “Look. If this is one of your games, I surrender. I give up! I give up on this game, House. You win.” He drops his hand to look at House almost hopefully, as if he’s wishing it were a game, something he could tap out of. 

“There’s no game,” House says. 

“Then are you going to deny there’s a problem, too?”

House can’t bring himself to deny it, so he says nothing. Wilson’s shoulders drop and he takes a few steps backward, as if to retrieve his stupid tea once more and retreat into his room. 

“Wilson,” he says again.

“I don’t know what you want,” Wilson bursts out, sounding uncharacteristically devastated. He presses a hand to his eyes again, and suddenly whirls around, so that his back to House. He sees Wilson take a few deliberate, large breaths then turn back to House. “I don’t know what you want, House. You want to leave, and it’s apparently something to do with me. So I would assume you’d want space until that can happen. But when I try—you just—and you’ve been so _weird_ , recently. What the fuck do you want from me?” 

House can’t look at him, so he leans heavily on his cane and stares at the floor. “Can we just sit?”

Wilson sighs, and then there’s a shuffling sound as Wilson moves to seat himself onto the couch. House feels his own shoulders relax slightly, and he moves cautiously over to the couch. There’s a brief second where he considers sitting next to Wilson, or at the end, away from him and in that moment he catches Wilson’s eye and sees how wary he looks. House takes a breath and sits himself right next to Wilson. He can feel Wilson let out a held breath of his own. 

“This sucks,” House says eventually, when long minutes have passed. Limmy seems to appreciate their seating arrangement, hopping up to drape herself across both their laps. 

Wilson laughs shortly, scratching gently behind Limmy's ear. “Yeah. It does.” He smells of antiseptic and there are the faintest hints of red marks on the bridge of his nose, as if from a mask. He’s spent more time than usual on the floor today, rather than in his office. 

“You lose someone today?” House asks, unsure how his voice should come across, and ending up sounding too…soft. 

Wilson blinks a few times, pursing his lips. “Yeah.” House can tell he’s trying to decide if he’s going to say more. He gives House a sidelong glance and whatever he sees in House must be good enough. “Seven year old girl. Multiple myeloma.”

“Myeloma? In a seven year old?”

Wilson grimaces. “HIV positive.” 

“Christ, that’s bleak,” House mutters. 

“Yeah,” Wilson agrees. He’s relaxing bit by bit against House’s side and although his face doesn’t look so stricken, the tiredness is becoming more apparent too. “Her foster parents took it really hard. I think they were hoping to adopt.” 

“I don’t know how you do it,” House tells him, tapping his cane as he imagines how morbid the scene must have been, even for him. 

Wilson looks at him curiously.

“What?”

“You usually say you don’t know _why_ I do it,” Wilson tells him, face pensive now. 

House shifts uncomfortably. “I mean, that too. There’s no good reason to sign up voluntarily for your job.”

It doesn’t quite shake the discomfiting thoughtful look from Wilson’s face but it lessens it. He looks _so_ tired. House wonders when the pair of them got so old and fucking tired. Wilson rubs at his eyes and before House has really thought it out, he gets up and limps over to the bookcase, retrieves Wilson’s mug of tea and brings it back to Wilson before sitting down. 

Wilson now stares at him like he’s grown a second head. 

“Don’t get used to it,” House snarls. “All these emotions are like toxins. I’m compromised. It’s not happening again. Hire a maid if you want to be waited on.”

Wilson is smiling smugly now. “I didn’t say a single thing. Down, boy.” He sets down his mug and takes off his suit jacket, then rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirt. House has watched that movement countless times and it occurs to him that it’s turned him on every time. The awareness is all that’s changed. “What now?” Wilson asks. 

They tentatively agree to turn the TV onto some channel hosting a classic horror film marathon, and House makes them grilled cheeses. Neither of them are paying real attention to the movies, but there isn’t much to be said between them either. Wilson dozes off halfway into the second movie, and by the end of it he’s sound asleep on House’s shoulder and House is feeling somewhere between a lovestruck middle schooler and a horny housewife. Neither is appealing. 

He breathes in the smell of Wilson’s stupid shampoo, and the antiseptic, and their shared detergent, and nods off too. Wilson wakes up at some indeterminate point in the middle of the night, but tosses House his pillow and blanket before he slinks back into his own room. 

It’s not terrible, considering how the evening started. 

••• 

Wilson is gone early again in the morning, and he’s left a note for House on the microwave instead of breakfast: “Go into work today. Taub is threatening to quit if you’re not going to show up. Foreman might stage a coup, too — W.”

House arrives at the hospital dutifully, but it’s a moot point because there are no cases today. Chase and Taub volunteer to monitor their last two patients still in the hospital for recovery and observation, which is about the most useless thing any of his doctors could do. Foreman takes the day off when Thirteen says she _isn’t_ , which is a dynamic House is going to have to torment away as soon as he can. 

Unlike Thirteen, House evades the clinic all through lunch, and can’t stomach going to the cafeteria without Wilson, and really can’t stomach going to Wilson to see if he’ll go to the cafeteria with him. It’s demeaning, all of this. House picks up his phone. 

“Dr. House,” Nolan greets cordially. “I have a moment, but only just.”

“That’s fine,” House says shortly, still displeased that he is apparently the kind of person that does call their shrink for help outside of sessions. “Tell me why I might be afraid.”

“So you think you’re afraid to pursue the option of a relationship, rather than simply not wanting to pursue it?” 

House shoots daggers at his unoffending computer screen. “You said you only had a moment. Tell me.” 

Nolan hums thoughtfully for a few brief seconds. “Rejection, obviously. Wilson might reject you, might not return your feelings. Or he might return your feelings but be disinterested in a relationship. Maybe he doesn’t believe you’ll be good for him. Maybe he feels shame at being with you. If those things are the case, then revealing yourself to him could permanently alter the friendship.

“You might have fears surrounding the hypothesized relationship. Maybe you’ll ruin it. Maybe it’ll end in devastation. Maybe you have anxiety about affection or intimacy. Maybe it’s you who feels shame about being in a relationship with Wilson, or with a man in general. Maybe you’re afraid it won’t live up to expectations. Maybe it’s garden variety commitment fears. Maybe it’s your issues with trust.”

House throws his ball hard at the wall and it bounces back into his palm. He doesn't like how his heart has suddenly picked up speed, a slight tight feeling in his chest. “That’s a lot for me to be afraid of. You’ve really thought this out. Oh boy, am I your prized case study?”

“I’m not done,” Nolan says, just the hint of a smile in his voice. “Maybe you’re afraid of the good things.”

House clears his throat. “I’m going to take a hard fucking pass on that one. I think I’ve seen enough soap operas to fill the blanks.” 

“Are you sure?”

“Definitely,” House says firmly. 

Nolan makes a doubtful sound but lets it slide. “Alright. My last theory? You’re afraid he’ll be your next addiction.”

That hits House like a punch to the gut. “And you’re not concerned he won’t be?”

“No, I’m not,” Nolan says easily. “If I were, I wouldn’t be encouraging you to explore this at all. But beyond that, my fears have little to do with your own. I have to go. How are you doing, otherwise?” He means: _have you used?_

“I’m fine,” House mumbles. “No slip ups.”

“Good,” Nolan says sincerely. “I’ll see you at our next appointment, then.”

House lets his phone clatter to his desk and drops his head into his hands. He fantasizes briefly about single-handedly identifying the specific neural circuitry creating the sensation of falling in love, and blasting it right out of his head so that this wouldn’t even be a thought in his mind anymore.

“What are you afraid of?” House looks up immediately. It’s Thirteen, standing in the doorway to his office, head cocked in question. “And who is ‘he’?”

“I’m afraid of Mickey Mouse. It’s a lifelong phobia. The cause behind my addiction issues, actually,” House tells her. “Why are you here? Go make Cuddy happy and stay in the clinic. It keeps her off my ass.”

Thirteen doesn’t move, eyes narrowed at him. He doubts she heard anything from Nolan’s end, and House didn’t say nearly enough to give her any ideas, so he’s not worried. He considers her briefly. Wilson is right, probably, that House enjoys her company. She’s the kind of acquaintance he doesn’t mind having and in this specific issue maybe… 

“Seriously,” House tells her. “Shoo!”

She glares at him, and leaves. House thinks absently it’s a good thing that Cameron fled to Chicago, because she never would have left House alone after overhearing even a moment of that phone call. 

••• 

House goes to his own apartment after work. The apartment is stale and cold, and when he looks around not much is inviting except for his piano. He sits down on the bench and _wants_ to play but nothing seems right at the moment, so he presses randomly at a C and then a G, alternating the two notes while he tries to let his brain blank for once. 

He nearly snaps his neck turning to look when there’s a sound at his front door. He’s prepared for anything— 

And then it’s Wilson, stepping inside with a tremendously sheepish expression on his face. 

“What the fuck?”

“Oh, you’re okay.” 

House blinks at him, shifting on the bench so he’s sitting to properly face Wilson, who closes the door behind him and stands there awkwardly. “Did you—are you—?”

“I followed you, yes,” Wilson says, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I’ll go now. I—are you coming ho—I mean. Are you staying at my place tonight?” He’s wearing his green tie today. House’s eyes track to that and sort of can’t move away. “House?”

“Yes,” House gets out. 

“Right,” Wilson says, still painfully awkward. He starts to head back towards the door. 

House grabs his cane and moves as quickly as he can over to Wilson. “No, no,” he says. “Just wait.” He grabs Wilson by the elbow and walks them into his kitchen, then sits Wilson down at the table. Wilson stares at him with wide, dark eyes, face unreadable. 

“Why did you follow me?” House demands. 

“To make sure you were okay, like I said.” Wilson is scowling slightly now, like he’s irritated. As if he isn’t the stalker here. 

“Why wouldn’t I be okay?” 

Wilson doesn’t even dignify that with a response. 

“Alright,” House says impatiently, pacing in tight circles in front of Wilson. “Why do you care so much? Why do you care enough to _stalk me?_ ”

“Like you haven’t done creepier things supposedly in the name of my safety and well-being,” Wilson challenges and House looks away, thinking privately that he’d rather not make this about him because that’s far too fair of a point. “And just so I’m prepared: is every question in this line of interrogation going to be egregiously stupid? Also, we’re missing our cooking class.” 

That last bit throws House off slightly and he spares a moment to regret that they couldn’t be where they were on a Thursday night three weeks ago, terrorizing one another at a Michelin grade stove and coming away with heart-clogging new recipes to try. He shakes his head and focuses again on that fucking green tie. “It’s not a stupid question. Why can’t you just answer it?” 

Wilson stands up too then, and throws his hands into the air before settling them on his hips and he has _got_ to stop doing that. “Because it’s never had to be said before!” Wilson exclaims. “It doesn’t need to be said! We both know the answer! It’s the same answer you’d give if I asked you!”

House isn’t sure anymore if it _is_ the same answer. He doesn’t know what to say so he just glowers harder and continues to pace, stopping occasionally to tap his cane in irritation. 

“I’m worried about you,” Wilson declares in a loud voice like this is supposed to be monumental news. “You’re being so fucking weird, and—and now you actually have _me_ wondering if Nolan isn’t some whackjob messing with your head. Holy shit, is that what this is? Are you fucking with me so I’ll side with you against Nolan?”

House barks a laugh. “Nolan might be the only legitimately skilled psychiatrist I’ve met. He’s _right_. He was fucking right.” He huffs and drops into a seat at the table, squeezing his leg slightly even though the pain isn’t too bad at the moment. 

“Right about what?” Wilson demands. “That doesn’t clear anything up and now I’m even _more_ concerned, because you’re complimenting your shrink. Jesus, House, I’m seconds away from smuggling you into a safe house in the countryside just in case you can’t like, speak freely here.” 

He steps close, and attempts to press a hand to House’s forehead, as if to check for a fever—if Wilson is worried about delirium at this point, House must have really done a number on him—and House immediately dodges Wilson’s touch. Wilson lets out a short bark of a laugh, puts his hands back on his hips, and now he’s the one pacing. 

“You’re catching my crazy,” House mutters, ducking his head to stare at his own feet. “This is why I should leave, don’t you see?”

Wilson sighs, and abruptly drops to the floor in front of House, kneeling and craning his neck to try to meet House’s eyes. “I’m not catching your crazy, you idiot. I’m going crazy because you won’t tell me what your crazy is. I’d be perfectly fucking fine if I knew what was going on in your head for once.”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” House says, and eyes Wilson warily, ready to jump away if he doesn’t keep his distance. 

“It does,” Wilson insists. “You know it does.” He lets out a breath and scoots back until he hits the base of the kitchen island, then slumps against it, knees up and a hand scrubbing over his face. “I guess I’ll just sit here until something changes because it would appear we’re at some sort of impasse.” 

Time passes. House stares at that green tie, and his brain whirls at a pace so fast he’s not even sure at all what the thought process is, only knows that he’s consumed by it. “Wilson.”

Wilson brings his head forward and looks at House from where he’s had it tipped back against the island, eye closed. “House.” His face is cautiously hopeful, clearly waiting for House to say something illuminating, to end the impasse. 

“You’re wearing your green tie today,” House points out. 

Wilson stares at him then looks down at himself. “Yes?”

House sniffs irritably. “Why?”

“Because,” Wilson says, very slowly, “I wear ties to work. And this was the first one in my drawer that didn’t clash with my shirt today.” 

House points his cane at him. “No. No. That’s your _nice_ tie. You wear it when you dress to impress. When you want to look good. Are you seeing som—”

“Oh my _God_.”

Wilson’s outburst is loud and abrasive enough to startle House into silence. Wilson is staring at him with an almost manic gleam in his eye, shuffling forward on the floor so he’s kneeling at House’s feet once more. House goes to scoot the chair away from him but Wilson’s hands shoot out to grab him by the knees and force him still. 

“Wilson—” 

“You are the stupidest fucking person I’ve ever met,” Wilson declares. “You’re a moron, you know that? I don’t even know how you get through the day. An _idiot_.”

House thinks maybe he’s finally broken Wilson, and then he’s not thinking very much at all, because Wilson leans up, grabs his face with both hands, and kisses him. It’s a terrible kiss. They’re at an incredibly awkward angle, and House’s brain has gone entirely offline and it’s just a crashing of lips together. 

“Wilson,” House tries to say again. 

“Just shut up,” Wilson says lowly, kissing down House’s jaw to his ear. “Just shut up for once. Kiss me. Don’t think. Don’t—do anything except kiss me. House. Kiss me.”

House kisses him just to make him stop talking and Wilson gives a trembling little sound that only further incapacitates House’s brain. “There,” Wilson murmurs. “There. You see?” Then he doesn’t talk anymore. 

House has never before had a kiss that was also a conversation, but it feels like everything that’s so hard and uncomfortable to say gets a lot easier when it can be told just like this, the press of mouths and tongues and breaths. Wilson drops a hand to clutch at House’s shirt and tries to press closer, rising up on his knees and wobbling slightly at the odd angle. House steadies him with an arm around his shoulders. Wilson feels so good. Of course he does. 

House kisses his way down Wilson’s throat. He hunches his shoulders and cranes his own neck to reach, and Wilson very obligingly lets his head fall back for easier access. Wilson’s arms come up to wrap around House, and his back must be killing him, but he doesn’t complain.

This has always been here. This warm, settled ache he gets when he presses his face into the slightly sweaty crook of Wilson’s neck and inhales greedily. It was always here. This was always going to be where they ended up. It feels like _relief_ , somehow, and that sends House spinning—that such a large part of himself could have been holding out for this, wanting it enough that to get it is a relief, and he had no idea. 

Maybe he did. Maybe he had more of an idea than he wants to admit. Some things, like random images come to mind when he’s jerking off in the shower and impulsive thoughts he’s had watching a giddy Wilson laugh during a poker game, can be kept just for himself. 

He wonders how long Wilson’s been waiting, and gets some idea from the low, hurt sounds Wilson is making—so low he feels more than hears them and he’s almost sure Wilson doesn’t know he’s making them. 

Wilson finally settles back onto his heels, a slight grimace confirming the strain on his back, but he just rests his head on House’s knee—the good leg—and doesn’t say a word. Tentatively, House places a hand on the back of his head and carefully threads his fingers through his hair. 

“You could have said something,” House offers eventually.

Wilson snorts. “I thought you knew. I didn’t know you were so _stupid_.” 

“If you thought I knew, then why didn’t you do anything?” 

Wilson turns so his chin rests on House’s knee and he can look up at House properly. He looks both younger and older like that. House rubs a thumb over his temple. “I guess I assumed that there would be a breaking point eventually.” 

“That’s irrational,” House says.

“No, that’s perfectly rational,” Wilson argues. “With what I knew was going on here, it was the most rational thing to expect that eventually we’d get tired of pretending and move on with it.”

House frowns.

“What’s irrational,” Wilson continues, “is that you’ve been wanting to fuck me for twenty years and it apparently just now occurred to you. _That’s_ irrational. That’s Freudian level repression. One for the books. I bet Nolan’s been having a field day.” 

"Seventeen years since we met," House corrects. “How unrefined of you to reduce it to fucking.”

Wilson smiles and it’s got all sorts of horrible layers to it. “Basically twenty. And no, I know. You _care_. You want to wine and dine me. You want to buy me chocolates and take me out to dinner and wash my laundry and shampoo my hair and buy me nice things and spoon me and—”

“Wilson. I’ll kill you.”

Wilson laughs. “What did we say about homicidal thoughts?” He pats House's calf comfortingly. "Don't feel too bad. It's unfortunately mutual." 

“How did you figure it out?”

Wilson arches an eyebrow. “The repression?” 

House nods then pauses. “Isn't your back killing you down there?” 

“Yeah, honestly.” Wilson sits back with a wince and House holds his forearm out for Wilson to grab onto while he pulls himself unsteadily to his feet. 

“Better?” House asks, finding himself reveling in the fact that he doesn’t have to pointedly look away as Wilson stretches and straightens out his clothes.

Wilson gets a tiny, inscrutable look on his face. “You take care of me.” 

House groans. “Stop.” 

“You do. Usually in weird, obsessive, and occasionally illegal ways but you do. But not always. Sometimes you’re just...nice.” 

House taps his cane irritably. “You better fucking wash your mouth with soap.” He hauls himself to his feet to stand in front of Wilson. “I gotta keep you around somehow, don’t I?”

“I’m not going anywhere, House.”

They’re quite near one another, House notices. They’ve been this near to each other before, but never have the possibilities and implications of such proximity been something House can appreciate. House leans in, watches Wilson’s pupils dilate. He wonders if Wilson’s always reacted this way to his closeness, and if his own eyes are doing the same. 

“You don’t have to hesitate,” Wilson murmurs. “You can kiss me whenever you want, you know.” 

House smiles. “Whenever I want?”

Wilson scrunches his face, as if considering, which is cute as fuck and probably entirely calculated. “Yeah,” Wilson says once he’s done pretending to think about it, “whenever you want.” 

House still feels hesitant, and he goes in cautiously, unsure what the line is. Wilson does not seem to share the sentiment. He grasps House’s shirt in both hands and sucks in a shuddery inhale, exhaling on a whiny, low moan. House catches up quickly. He gets one arm around Wilson’s waist, and lets his free hand grip Wilson’s shoulder. 

Wilson gives that shuddery inhale again, and he’s so tense against House, hands now scrabbling to grip the back of his shirt. He pulls back to bury his face in House’s neck and pant heavily there, pressing wet lazy kisses to the skin just at the edge of his collar. “I hate you for making me wait.”

House rolls his eyes and brings a hand to the back of Wilson’s neck, thumb rubbing small circles in the tender spot just below his ear. “Two to tango, Wilson. You didn’t say shit either.” 

“I’m still blaming you.” He _bites_ House then and House hisses. 

The back of Wilson’s hair is a mess, from running his hands through it in agitation, so House combs it back into place gently. For that, Wilson starts sucking gently at his neck, working up to a mark languidly. House enjoys the undemanding suction of lips and wet slickness of tongue, so different from the quick and harsh love bites he’s used to receiving. 

“You like when I’m nice to you,” House announces suddenly, and realizes his own hand is resting close to the curve of Wilson’s ass. He can feel the sturdiness of his belt beneath his palm. When Wilson chuckles, his breath tickles House’s neck, warm and light. 

“Such an astute observation, House. How profound that a normal person might appreciate being treated nicely.” His words vibrate against House’s skin and House actually has to bite back a moan, so he curls his fist in Wilson’s hair and pulls his head back. 

Wilson’s eyes are still blown, eyelids heavier than usual and lips pinker and slicker. In retaliation, Wilson brings a hand around to curve around the side of House’s neck, thumb resting just at the base of his throat, that tender spot above the dip of his clavicle. Wilson presses down slightly.

House swallows.“First, you aren’t normal. More interestingly, you like that I’m _only_ nice to you. All your preaching and lecturing about being decent to other people, just to fulfill your daily morality quota but you _like_ that I’m so awful to everyone in the world and can still be nice to you when I want. That I do want to be nice to you. You _like_ it.”

Wilson smiles, and digs his thumb in a little more.

“How selfish of you, Wilson. Possessive.” He very slightly tips his chin back, so that the length of his neck stretches and tension increases the pressure of Wilson’s thumb. 

“I really do think it’s a good thing to be nice to everyone,” Wilson blatantly lies, eyes dancing. 

“Sure.” 

Wilson kisses him again, chaste this time, with both hands now framing House’s face. “Limmy’s probably hungry.” 

“You were going to tell me how you figured this whole thing out.” 

Wilson steps back and straightens his clothes once again. “And I will. Once we’re at home. With our cat. Where we have groceries in our fridge and bills paid so we have functioning utilities.”

There’s a lot of _we_ s and _our_ s in there. 

“High maintenance,” House accuses. 

Wilson kisses his cheek, which is revolting and makes House’s heart clench, and starts to walk toward the front door. House glances around at the apartment. Most of his memories here are Vicodin-hazy, lonely and caged. His couch looks warmer—Wilson spent most of his time there when he was over.

“You coming?”

“Yeah,” House says, and follows. 

••• 

House’s brain is quiet as he rides his bike and follows Wilson’s car home. It’s quiet the way it hasn’t been in a long, long time and House realizes it’s contentment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is entirely a rather explicit sex scene. I consider it an emotional/intimate catharsis but it is not at all necessary to follow the story or get emotional resolution for the relationship. The fourth chapter picks right up with relevant pillow talk. If porn isn't your thing, skip the third and go right to the fourth and final chapter!


	3. III.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To reiterate, this chapter is purely a sex scene. You don't need to read it unless you want, because it won't take away from the story if you skip it. For those that like this kind of thing, enjoy. I intended it to be a decent supplementary bit of emotional/intimate catharsis.

•••

The first thing House does when they get into the apartment is go to feed Limmy, who stares at them reproachfully from the kitchen island as though they’ve starved her for days and it’s not any more than a half hour past her usual feeding time. He washes his hands after, and then walks back around to the living area.

Wilson has taken off his coat, scarf, and suit jacket. He unbuttons his cuffs and rolls his sleeves up his forearms. House feels twenty years of repression and some five odd weeks of turmoil hurtling at him all at once at lightning speed, a train off tracks and no way to stop it.

“So,” Wilson starts, his voice in its patented _I’m a good listener and also a good talker_ tone. He puts his hands on his hips. 

The train comes to an explosive crash and House gets tunnel vision briefly. He moves swiftly over to Wilson who’s still standing near the front door and crowds him up against it, forearms on either side of his head. Wilson doesn’t look the least bit startled or concerned, he notes distantly. 

“We can talk after,” House says, maybe sounding close to begging but he’s never been one for shame when it comes to sex. “I’m more honest post-coital, you can ask me anything and I’ll listen to everything, and I—”

Wilson smacks a hand over his mouth. “Shut up, you idiot. You think you have to bargain your way to a fuck? When I’ve been waiting two decades?” He looks entirely pleased with himself. 

_Bastard_ , House thinks when he realizes, and it only turns him on more. “You _know_ I like it when you stand like that,” House accuses, bringing his face in close. “You _know_ —”

“Of course I know,” Wilson says. “Longer than you’ve known. Your eyes sort of glaze over every time I do it, even when I’m really fucking pissed at you or vice versa.”

House shivers slightly. “You’re so manipulative,” he says and hears the affection in it. 

There’s a blur and then House is the one pressed up against the door—House spares a dizzied thought to Bonnie’s confession that Wilson is _that_ good in bed—his leg somehow unbothered and Wilson pinning his hips down hard. 

Wilson puts his hand on House’s cock, no pretense, no hesitation. House nearly chokes on his inhale. Wilson moans, and House might have accused him of laying it on a little thick until he sees the slack, entirely blissed— _genuine_ —look on his face.

“Oh God,” House whispers, and he is hit all at once with the realization of how _good_ this is going to be. 

“Mm,” Wilson hums and wriggles a hand between House and the door to grab at House’s ass. House’s mind fixates on that sensation, stuck like a record on it as Wilson tugs him away from the door and maneuvers them to his bedroom. 

He somehow manages to make supporting House and accommodating his leg so natural it hardly registers for House, who’s caught up mostly in how possessive Wilson’s grip is on him. 

Wilson sits him down on the bed and shoves at his shoulders, obviously trying to get House to lay back so he can clamber on top of him, and frowns when House resists slightly.

“Wait,” House says, uncharacteristically short on words. Instead, he scoots to the edge of the mattress, spreads his legs and tugs Wilson to stand between them. He’ll never be able to properly get on his knees for Wilson, but this is a pleasant enough substitute. 

“Oh,” Wilson murmurs, placing a gentle hand at the back of House’s head. 

It’s safe to worship Wilson here, in all the ways he’s worked so hard to compensate for out there in the harsh light of the world, with pranks and criticisms and constant paranoia that he’ll be caught out for what he is, what Wilson is to him. It’s much safer here in the cool darkness of Wilson’s bedroom, the blurring of time as he helps Wilson unbutton his shirt and encourages him to remove it all the way and toss it to the ground. 

Wilson’s gotten him to take his own shirt off too, somehow, House registers distantly when he feels the dry warmth of Wilson’s palms his newly bared shoulders. House lets his own hands explore their way up Wilson’s body from the waistband of his pants up to his chest, fingertips digging in at his clavicle.

His abdomen is soft and undefined when House presses his face to it, lips open against the coarse line of hair at Wilson’s navel, trailing downwards. His chest is firmer under his hands and when he moves them outwards, his shoulders are broad and he enjoys the shift of his biceps as Wilson tightens his grip on House. 

Wilson gives a quiet sound when House grips him by the waist and tugs him even closer so he can bite at Wilson’s stomach, suck one, two marks there. Time blurs again, his hands moving frantically and then Wilson is bare below his waist too and House wastes not a moment in sucking him straight down. 

“ _Jesus fuck,”_ Wilson whispers, short nails digging into the skin at the back of House’s neck. He’s musky and thick between House’s lips, heavy on his tongue. House gets a grip on his ass and pulls him in closer, closer. 

The decades since he last did this strain his gag reflex but no one except Wilson will get to hear the needy moan he makes in response to the sensation. Wilson’s hips twitch after a few long minutes, aborted like he’s trying to restrain himself, and heat flares low in House’s pelvis, cock pulsing with a rush of more blood where it’s already straining hard.

House pulls off with an obscene sound that makes him smirk slightly before he’s tugging more insistently at Wilson until they both flop back onto the bed, Wilson sprawled on top of him.

“Graceful,” Wilson quips and makes short work of the rest of House’s clothes, rearranging them more comfortably at the center of the bed. His sheets are crisp and perfectly made, and House pats them and quirks a mocking eyebrow at Wilson, who pointedly ignores it in favor of rolling their bodies together and _yeah_ , sometimes Wilson has the better ideas between the pair of them. 

Their cocks are hot against one another, sticky precome drooling from them both and adding uneven slickness to the friction. Wilson’s hands and mouth are everywhere, and House clutches at him helplessly, lets Wilson do whatever he wants. This is Wilson— _Wilson_ —he thinks dazedly, Wilson’s panting breath and sturdy body, soft hair and sharp teeth. 

“Do you want—?”

“ _Y_ _es_ ,” House says immediately. “As soon as possible. Now.” 

Wilson laughs lowly. “Bossy. Entitled, even.” 

“I’m less eager the more you talk,” House lies. It gets Wilson moving anyway, stretching to rummage in his bedside table. House leans up to kiss along his lower stomach, pelvis and thigh as he does so, unable to stop himself. 

There’s only lubricant, no condom, when Wilson comes back, sitting up as he braces himself over House’s knees. House doesn’t even blink. They’re doctors who should absolutely know better but it’s not like they’re presenting an example for patients and they’ve always made their most reckless decisions together anyway.

Wilson keeps condoms in his nightstand, which House knows for a fact. He just chose not to retrieve them for this. He didn’t want them for this.

House lets that knowledge burn pleasant heat through him as Wilson jerks House's cock a few times, and then busies himself slopping lubricant over his fingers. He presses a thumb, _hard_ , against House’s perineum, making him yelp embarrassingly and buck his hips. He glares at Wilson, who smiles sweetly and brings his hand lower to tuck a fingertip inside House. 

Time blurs once more. Wilson leans forward at one point to kiss House firmly as his fingers don’t falter for a moment between House’s legs. He has two inside before House knows it, fingers stretching and rubbing and crooking to make him hiss and bite Wilson’s lip.

Wilson hums satisfactorily and dips in a third, slow and steady. He brings his other hand down to wrap around House’s cock, thumb circling over the head. He keeps up the movements seamlessly, mouth still working over House’s easily.

“You’ve done this,” House gasps into the kiss, no question to be asked.

“Often,” Wilson says, unashamed. He drops his body further down without disrupting his hand in a probably intentional display of surprising body strength, cock pressed to the crease of House’s thigh. His breath is hot, hungry little inhales, like he’s getting off on this as much as House. “I didn’t just cheat on my wives with other women, House.”

House’s head swims at that, and he grabs at Wilson’s shoulders, smoothes his palms up the seemingly endless warm skin of Wilson’s back. “I would have known,” House says. “I would have noticed.” 

“Would you?” 

Wilson is smiling smugly. He sits back so he can grab one of House’s hands and bring it back to touch the slick, heated place where Wilson’s fingers are working into him. House can feel sweat dripping down his own temples, cock aching. 

Tentatively, House tucks a fingertip inside along Wilson's knuckles, tossing his head to the side at the stretch. 

Wilson crooks his fingers again.“They looked like you.” 

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“They always looked like you.” Wilson is glistening with sweat when House turns his head back to look at him hazily. “I don’t know how purposeful it always was. I wasn’t crying into my beer over it. But it always ended up that way.” 

He leans back into House, their arms and wrists tangled tightly between their bodies, between House’s thighs. House can't even make this angle work when he’s on his own, it's hardly ergonomic, and the fact that Wilson is making it actually fantastic is almost irritating. 

“I stopped sleeping with men after I met you,” House confesses. “I slept with men more than women before you. Couldn’t do it after. Didn’t fuck a single man after the first night I saw you in New Orleans.”

Wilson gives him a dirty kiss in lieu of saying anything and it feels reckless, their bodies impatient and demanding. They’re breathing harshly, low sounds caught in between so seamlessly House isn’t sure from which one of them they’re coming. 

Wilson suddenly removes his fingers and he's kissing sloppily across House’s clavicle then his chest. In the shadowy light House can see that Wilson’s eyes are half-lidded, cheeks red and mouth slack, kisses relaxed. He looks—blissed, as he moves further down House’s body, haphazardly pressing his mouth to every bit of skin he can reach. 

It’s overwhelming. House presses a hand to the sweaty, messy hair at the back of Wilson’s head, just keeping a touch on him and tilts his chin back, eyes shut against sensation, breathing roughly. Wilson is kissing at his navel, then his hipbones. He turns his face into the crease of House’s thigh and seems to rest there for a moment, nose tucked against sweaty skin.

The hot slick of his tongue against the underside of House’s cock comes unexpectedly and makes House arch and hiss. He’s harder and more sensitive than he can remember being at any recent point in his life. Wilson laughs lowly, sucks at the head of House’s cock. House tightens his hand in Wilson’s hair, and feels himself blurt precome. Wilson hums and sucks that up too.

“Wilson—”

“Yeah,” Wilson says throatily, sounding almost intoxicated. “Yeah, I know.” When he moves back up House’s body, he presses close, hot skin to hot skin, each place they’re touching sweaty and almost stifling. House grabs Wilson’s ass in an attempt to bring them even closer. 

Wilson grabs his jaw and presses hard until his mouth drops open then gives him a kiss, softer than House anticipated, tongue gentle but insistent, thumb rubbing slightly circles into his skin. He leans back and House misses the loss of skin to so much skin, and brings his hands to press against Wilson’s chest, the dusting of hair there, the softness of his abdomen, the broadness of his shoulders. Touch, touch, touch. 

Wilson makes careful, efficient work of arranging House’s legs. He hooks his arm under the knee of House’s good leg, and pushes his bad leg out of the way, making sure it isn’t at an uncomfortable angle. House grips his shoulders.

The first push in knocks House’s breath out of him, making him groan on empty lungs and turn his head to the side, eyes squeezed shut. His tugs at Wilson’s shoulders to make him keep going and Wilson does, insistent pressure that brings stars up behind House’s eyelids.

“Oh Jesus,” House says. 

Wilson’s hand is nudging at his chin, making him face forward and open his eyes. House whines—he’ll never admit to it—when he does. Even in the dark, he can see the glazed look in Wilson’s eyes, the heaving of his chest. Wilson drops down, forearms on either side of him, and rolls his hips.

House nods breathlessly, and Wilson does it again, then again, and again, and again. His face is buried in the crook of House’s shoulder and their bodies are rolling together so _well_. House wraps his calf around Wilson’s hips and his arms around Wilson’s shoulders, and moves back against Wilson.

He likes the sounds Wilson’s making, little grunts and high pitched moans and deep groans, and is vaguely aware that he’s making noise too, but he’s too busy to pay it any mind. His cock hurts a little and if he were touching it, he’d probably have come by now. 

This is—this feels like the last piece slotting neatly together somewhere he didn’t know was missing anything. This is a Wilson he’s needed and didn’t know to ask for, vulnerable and sweaty and torn apart in his arms. This is Wilson paying attention _only_ to House, the one thing House craves most at any given time. It’s Wilson taking something from House, like it’s his and always has been and he’s _right_. In return, he gets Wilson out of control, stripped bare with nowhere to go. 

Tomorrow they’ll probably go to work and House will do something reckless that is absolutely necessary and say something so mean to a patient Wilson will have to come in and lecture him about caring and social mores. He’ll toss up his hands when House doesn’t give a shit and House will come brood in his office later. Wilson will be all neatened up and untouchable. House’s leg will be screaming by two in the afternoon and he’ll have nothing but Wilson’s sad, knowing eyes to soothe it. Tomorrow everything will be difficult and familiar all at once.

Right now he gets just this. Right now Wilson gets just this. A little unreality they’ve created for themselves that doesn’t belong out there, with everything and everyone else. It’s unreal except for how every single millisecond is painfully real, raw and human. 

Wilson makes an aching sound into House’s shoulder then bites him and House arches up, eyesight going fuzzy. “Harder,” he hears himself say, “Wilson, I want—”

“Yes,” Wilson gasps, like he knows _exactly_ what House wants, and he probably does. Wilson leans back onto his heels, House’s leg sliding down. His cock slips out for a moment as they readjust. Wilson’s cheeks are flaming red now, hair plastered to his forehead and forearms straining from how tightly he’s grasping House’s hips. His eyes are dark and wide, almost fevered, lashes clumped by sweat. 

He’s _pretty_ , Wilson is, as pretty as he was when House met him. He only looks prettier like this and House distantly commits to taking every chance from here on out to leer at the loveliness of him, every single day if he can.

Wilson slams back in and House groans, cock drooling more precome because god _damn_ Wilson knows exactly how to work his prostate like this. Wilson keeps one hand on his hip and drags the other up his chest, thumb over a nipple and rubbing with each jolting movement of their bodies as he thrusts. 

House has to blink burning sweat out of his eyebrows, clutching at the sheets like a lifeline, curling slightly up from the mattress, to stare at the place between their bodies where Wilson is fucking him dutifully hard, slower than before. Wilson keeps making these little hurt whines, hips shoving deep every few thrusts and circling, in response to which House clenches tight around him. It makes Wilson give the most obscene moan, all selfish pleasure. 

If House gets fucked like this every day, his quality of life will increase more than any cursed daily meditation or gentle physical therapy exercise could provide him. He’s sure of that. For once, Wilson might actually agree. 

Wilson’s hand slips from his chest to press into the mattress next to his shoulder and House brings his own hand up to wrap around his wrist, holding on tight. His thumb is stroking— _lovingly_ at the thin skin over the bone there and without thinking he pulls Wilson’s hand up and gives his palm a sloppy, uneven kiss.

“House,” Wilson says, sounding unsteady. He cups House’s cheek, thumb pressed to the corner of his mouth. House brings it between his lips to suckle on it softly, and with each thrust it presses against his tongue, makes him gag slightly. 

The pleasure is almost unbearable when Wilson tilts his hips slightly, bending him in a bit and bearing down on him insistently, slowing down his thrusts this time. Sweat is rolling down Wilson’s neck and chest. House never wants anyone else even fucking _look_ at Wilson again. 

His balls are tightening up. “Wilson,” he groans around the thumb in his mouth, “I wanted—I’ve always wanted—always wanted—”

“I know,” Wilson assures him, voice just a breathy groan. He braces himself on his wrists above House, bending him a little further—further than House would have thought possible at his age, but then the sheer goodness of this fuck is better than anything he thought possible at his age—and craning his neck to drop down at kiss House. “I know,” he repeats, “me too. I—me too. I wanted. Finally.”

It’s perversely satisfying to hear the way Wilson is losing coherency, to see his wild eyes and spit slick mouth, how fast he’s losing it. Sweat drips from his face to House’s and that makes House _whimper_ , another thing he’ll deny to his grave. He brings a hand up to swipe along the fallen sweat and puts his fingers to his mouth to taste. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Wilson moans, hips stuttering. He shuts his eyes and breaths harshly through his nose before picking up again. House is achingly close and moves his hips up into the thrusts as best his can. Wilson moves his hand between them, as if to touch his cock.

House bats it away, shakes his head and pushes Wilson’s sweaty hair back from his forehead. Wilson’s eyes widen with understanding and he looks so fucking _smug_ , would probably be gloating and preening under any other circumstance. 

“Shut up,” House practically wheezes, too fucked to properly glare at Wilson. “Don’t—let it— _oh fuck, yeah_ —go to—your—head.” 

Wilson’s face does a funny thing, somewhere between cocky and fond and that’s—a lot. He gives House another kiss, this one too sweet for what’s happening between their bodies, and it makes House’s face crumple a bit. 

Just then something tightens abruptly in House’s pelvis, cock stiffening so much the skin feels too tight. “I’m gonna come,” he gasps into Wilson’s mouth. Wilson moans like he’s in pain, nodding encouragingly. “Fast now—Wilson, faster, please, m’gonna _come_ , faster, please.”

House doesn’t think he’s ever begged during sex before but can’t complain when it gets him exactly what he wants—Wilson’s hips fucking into him at a frantic pace, the sound of skin on skin just lewd. There will probably be marks on the both of them. 

House has his hands on Wilson’s back and feels the way Wilson has started gasping like he’s drowning, shuffling forward as though he can get any closer to House. House tugs Wilson’s face to the crook of his neck with one hand, fingers tangled in the back of Wilson’s hair as he _finally_ starts to come. 

It almost hurts. 

He can feel it up his chest and Wilson’s, a couple spurts, then thick, sluggish pulses of it down his cock, sticky and hot. It goes on and on and he bites Wilson’s neck to shut the fuck up because he’s making the worst noises. Wilson’s name is in there somewhere and blindly House thinks Wilson deserves to hear that, so he frees up his mouth again.

Before his body has even settled into aftershocks, Wilson inhales so fast it sounds like he’s choking and slows down his hips to give a few more deep rolls. He makes a sound like he’s dying, whispers House’s name, and curls his fingers at House’s hips so that his nails are digging in, probably breaking capillaries. 

He _really_ likes making Wilson come, House decides, as he holds onto him possessively. He rubs his fingers soothingly into Wilson’s scalp while Wilson circles his hips, chasing the feeling and pressing his open mouth to House’s shoulder, spit everywhere. House clenches tight for him and feels very inclined to stay just in this moment forever. 

Their bodies fall down from their tense, arched positions all at once, House’s hips dropping to the bed and Wilson’s entire body collapsing on top of his—though he somehow avoids jostling House’s leg. He wonders if Wilson will ever be able to stop taking care of him. 

•••


	4. IV.

•••

“First time sex isn’t supposed to be that good,” House says eventually, once they’ve caught their breaths and Wilson has arranged himself more comfortably against House’s chest.

“Yeah, well.” 

House considers. “Old people sex isn’t supposed to be that good.” He’s pleasantly sore where Wilson's worked him open, made a space for himself. 

“Yeah, well.” 

Wilson is pressing soft, indulgent kisses to House’s chest and House closes his eyes and lets himself just feel their touch, listens to the quiet wet sounds they make. 

"Time to cash in on that promised post-coital honesty and receptivity," Wilson tells him after a while.

House groans, but gives Wilson's shoulder a squeeze to convey his acquiescence. 

“I knew it was about this,” Wilson starts softly, “that day in the kitchen. When you touched me. Right here.” He brings one of House’s hands up to guide his fingers along his waist. House lays his palm there even when Wilson lets go. “I figured at first you were trying to decide how to initiate, or something.” 

House squeezes the pillowy flesh at Wilson’s waist gently and waits for him to continue. 

“That didn’t make complete sense to me because you’ve never been delicate or shy about anything. But I couldn’t imagine what else would be going on.” Wilson’s hand is stroking up and down House’s flank. “It started to come to me when you apologized for kicking me out of your apartment after Julie. You said—it wasn’t really for the reasons you told me at the time but you wouldn’t say what the real reasons were. I think at that point I had a clue but it seemed so _absurd_. You’ve never been subtle about this, House. I’ve never been subtle.” 

_You’ve never been subtle about this, House_. 

Wilson kisses his chest again. “How could you look at me the way you do, say the things you do, act the way you do, _love_ me the way you do? And not fucking know? How does that work?” 

House swallows and brings his hand up to Wilson’s shoulder. 

“I think I forgot that for a genius, you’re kind of an idiot. Anyway, I figured it all out when you tried to move out. Which is why I wore the green tie.” 

House snaps his head over and down to peer at Wilson incredulously. “You _what_?” 

Wilson laughs, eyes crinkling as he looks up at House from his place on House’s chest. “Well, I tried the shirt first. And the buttons. The idea was to make you more horny than you were anxious. I think I just made you so horny you just got _more_ anxious. The theory was still that you only needed a little push.” 

House’s mind is whirring. “You manipulative—”

“Bitch, I know. But that was before I realized that you were actually having an existential crisis. I figured it had something to do with Nolan, eventually. That meant it had to be more serious than I first thought. You looked so spooked every time I got near you and then you tried to fucking _leave_. I have never seen you so irrational and I’ve seen you at your most insane.” 

House pinches him, which just makes Wilson wriggle closer. House moves his head to press his nose at the hair at Wilson’s temple and breathe in the sweaty scent. Wilson hums contentedly. 

“The leaving hurt at first. I briefly thought about giving up, letting go. Then I simply refused to accept, because what bullshit, right? Anyway. The green tie really seems to bother you. I thought it’d been pretty fucking clear I wasn’t seeing anyone right now—I spend every minute with you, dumbass—so I figured you and your brilliant mind could do the math and figure I was wearing it _for you_. But I don’t think it ever really occurred to you that this was mutual. Idiot. Idiot, idiot, idiot.” 

House opens his mouth and Wilson speaks up again.

“By the way, I’ve never worn anything special for anyone. You just like to fetishize me.”

“I do _not_ —”

“You do,” Wilson says, matter of fact. “Frequently. Every time you pretend to insult my appearance, your pupils dilate and your respiratory rate increases. Days when you’re fixated on analyzing what I’m wearing or where I’m going or what I’m eating, you use any excuse to get into my personal space, and you _sniff_ me, you animal. It’s really obscene for the workplace.” 

House is used to Wilson explaining House to himself but this is uncomfortably pointed and House can’t even counter properly. “It sounds like you’re pretty obsessed with me,” he attempts weakly, “if you’re noticing all that.”

“Yes. I am.” 

He says it so easily, so firmly. An open fact, not a hushed confession. “Wilson.” House moves close until Wilson gets the hint and tilts his chin up, then gives him a kiss, slow and relatively chaste, just a soft brush of their tongues. 

“If you were so sure I was aware all along,” House says when they break apart, “explain to me the wives. The girlfriends. The doing _nothing._ The twenty years gone by.” 

Wilson shrugs a shoulder. “I figured we were just waiting. It had to happen eventually and I was mostly content to bide my time until then.”

“Mostly?”

“Marriages when I started to doubt. Divorces when I stopped doubting, or stopped being able to pretend. Girlfriends when I was bored. Or jealous. Or wanted your attention. Obviously there were times all the emotions got all mixed up but I suppose that's to be expected when you take this long to catch up.”

House processes. “So. You—got into relationships with women solely motivated by your feelings for me. Wilson, that’s _awful_. I mean, that’s positively cruel.” He’s smiling wide.

“When you put it that way,” Wilson says, a pout in his voice. “Besides, I liked most of them well enough.” He winces as soon as he finishes saying it. 

“What would have happened if I hadn’t had my breakdown?” House wonders aloud.

Wilson snorts. “You would have. You can wave your repression flag all you want but I know there were moments it broke through. It was literally a matter of time before you got there.”

House thinks back to those showers, the random impulses, the instant mistrust and fear he felt when a new woman walked into Wilson’s life. “I suppose.” 

Wilson shifts to hover over House. “I wouldn’t have let you get away, you cranky old man. Eventually I would have kissed some sense into you. I would have manipulated you into domesticity. I would have tricked you into sharing a bed. I would have done anything—”

House kisses him quiet and Wilson seems contented by that, making happy noises and brushing the backs of his fingers against House’s cheek. “You can’t go anywhere. You can’t leave,” House says into the kiss, alarmed by how involuntarily the words leave his mouth.

“I’ve never gone anywhere. I’ve never really left. Even before this. You think I’m gonna walk away now? Fuck you, you took over my life the moment you bailed me out of that jail. _You’re_ the one who pushes.”

“Don’t let me push too far,” House says. 

“I won’t,” Wilson promises.

“Didn’t you ever wish the waiting would stop?” House asks. “Didn’t you ever wish we’d done this sooner? When we were younger?” 

“All the time.” The words are very soft and Wilson’s face darkens briefly for the first time with something like real hurt. 

House rolls them over so Wilson is on his back and House is above him, hands cupping either side of Wilson’s face. He kisses his forehead, his nose, his lips. Wilson lets out a little breath and wraps his arms around House. 

“Post coital _is_ a good look on you,” Wilson says, sounding sly. “You were right. You’re practically human this way. I’ll have to utilize this more often.”

“The hell you will,” House says instantly.

“Oh, so you’re saying _no_ to fucking as often as possible? I see.”

House rolls his eyes. “It’s oxytocin. Dopamine. Endorphins.”

“Which just make you feel good,” Wilson says happily. “They don’t make you a liar or a different person. No, you’re just fucked out. I fucked you into being _sweet_ to me. Into talking about your _feelings._ I fucked the bastard out of you.” 

“Mm, the way you sweet talk to me, Jimmy.” 

It’s almost completely dark in the room now, and they haven’t eaten dinner but they’re both far too tired for that, even if it means they’re going to be famished by breakfast time in the morning. Wilson shoves a few tissues at House to clean up, and does the same for himself. 

“Don’t you want to shower?” House says skeptically because House has never known Wilson to skip a shower in his life.

“I’m fine.” Wilson tugs his ridiculous fluffy duvet up around them, then fusses around with his pillows.

House narrows his eyes. “Are you _sure?_ The sheer number of layers of fil—”

“House,” Wilson insists. “I’m fine right here.” He gives House a quick kiss, then lays down on his side.

House doesn’t need a written invitation. He presses himself up against Wilson, his chest to the warm skin of Wilson’s back, a possessive arm slung over his waist and his nose buried in the nape of his neck.

“See? You like to smell me,” Wilson mumbles sleepily.

“Projection is just as powerful as repression, Wilson.”

Wilson presses his hand into House’s on his belly. “Whatever you say, caveman.”

House falls asleep easier than he has at all since detoxing. 

•••

The clock on Wilson’s nightstand reads 2:17 AM when House wakes groggily to the sound of the shower running in the bathroom. He scrubs a hand over his eyes and takes a sip from the water bottle Wilson keeps next to the clock then grins into the darkness of the room, flopping back down on the mattress.

The water shuts off and there’s some quiet rustling before Wilson comes back to the bed. In the low moonlight coming from the window, House can just make out the stripes of Wilson’s favorite linen pajama bottoms, his upper half still bare. 

He laughs. “Couldn’t stand it, could you?” 

“Shut up. Go back to sleep, asshole. And you’re putting the sheets in the laundry tomorrow.”

House cuddles right back up against him once Wilson is settled in bed. “I don’t see how that’s fair. This mess-making was a joint effort, if I recall.” 

Wilson shrugs a shoulder. “I didn’t say anything about being fair.” He makes a happy noise when House brushes the back of his fingers lightly from his clavicle to navel.

“Tyrant,” House accuses, pushing his nose once more into the now damp nape of Wilson’s neck. 

He’s just started to fall asleep when Wilson speaks again. “House.” 

“Trying to sleep.” 

“House,” Wilson insists. “Don’t make fun of me. Could you say it just once? I know you don’t like to say it, and probably won’t say it again. And I don’t _want_ you to say it again. It would be weird. I would think something was wrong with you, actually. But just once. Can you—say it?” 

House blinks his eyes open and tightens his arm around Wilson’s waist, moves to press his face into the crook of Wilson’s shoulder and neck. He can feel Wilson practically holding his breath. He shuts his eyes again. “I’m in love with you.” 

Wilson lets out a shuddery, loud breath, and relaxes entirely against House, practically boneless. When he returns the sentiment, it’s just a whisper. House can feel the contentment radiating from him. 

Falling back asleep is just as easy as the first time. 

•••

Wilson wakes House up a half hour early in the morning to present House with two Tylenol, a heating pad for his leg, and a hot mug of tea. 

“You’re taking a shower, too,” Wilson directs, glaring at him as if House might oppose, before bustling out of the room to feed Limmy. 

Fortunately for Wilson, even House is vaguely disgusted by how various body fluids and lubricant have congealed on his body in the night, so once his leg has mostly finished tantruming, he limps his way over to the bathroom for a perfunctory shower. 

“You could have let me sleep at least another fifteen minutes,” House complains as he makes his way into the kitchen, dressed and disgruntled. 

“I can never predict how long it’s going to take you to bitch and whine your way awake,” Wilson says carelessly, now pouring himself some coffee. 

House considers making the French waffles again but they’re out of heavy whipping cream and it would mean a lot of dishes left in the sink when they have to rush out the door in a bit, so he settles for omelettes. Wilson very kindly assists, so earnestly House mocks him a bit for it. 

“My license is probably going to come in today,” House says conversationally as they settle in at the counter to eat. 

“Foreman’s going to love that.” 

House snorts. “He’s going to find some insufferable way to make his feelings known for oh, the next three weeks before he remembers he enjoys his job under me just fine.”

Wilson frowns, chewing slowly. “Go easy on him.” 

“What, so he can think if he wheedles enough I’ll step down? So he can waste time trying to mark territory he doesn’t have? I don’t think so.”

“House,” Wilson sighs. “Just try to be nice enough that he doesn’t do something drastic like quit.”

“He’s never going to quit. It’s Foreman. He’s attached,” House retorts, and neither of them push the issue, because they both know House is going to attempt at least slightly to follow Wilson’s advice. 

“Speaking of coworkers,” Wilson starts as they clatter their plates into the sink. 

“Is there any need to tell them?” House asks, leaning heavily on his cane as Limmy winds between his legs, clearly hoping for food scraps that aren’t to be had. 

Wilson crosses his arms, brows creased slightly as if he’s thinking a complicated issue through. “Need? No. Alright, let me ask this way. Do you have anything _against_ them knowing?” 

“Not on principle,” House says carefully. “What would we tell them? It’s not like _dating_ , or anything so—plebeian. We’re—” He gestures vaguely between them, trying to convey _in this for life_ without saying it aloud. 

Wilson gives him the softest, most understanding smile and House ducks his chin to stare at the kitchen tile. “You worry about them not taking it seriously? House.”

House sighs, taps his cane. “Wilson, I honestly could care less what my those morons think. Really. The act of telling them seems—performative. But it’s not about hiding anything.” 

“Okay.”

House peers up at him. “Okay?”

Wilson shrugs. “I’ve never enjoyed advertising relationships. You know that. It also isn’t about hiding anything. So we’ll just go along until it gets found out or we have to tell someone, okay?” 

House gives a nod. “Right.” 

It isn’t like it’ll be difficult to keep it private. There isn’t much of a change here besides sex and bed sharing. Kisses when he wants them. The assurance that he gets Wilson to himself. 

On the way out, Wilson nags at House again. “ _Please_ be civil to Foreman, House. Show him you care however you can. Remember last time you couldn’t do that? He left.”

“And then he came back,” House says shortly, as they approach Wilson’s car.

Wilson continues to try to lecture him the entire time to the hospital and House responds with increasingly elaborate insults. Really, not much has changed at all. 

•••

House gives them away four days in. 

It’s technically Wilson’s fault, and he’ll stand by that. He pages Wilson as he and the team are brainstorming their latest case. Wilson pops his head in minutes later, a coffee in hand. “Did you need me for a consult?” 

His hair is less carefully styled than usual—because House stalled them this morning by sucking Wilson off when they woke up—and it’s falling very prettily across his forehead. 

“No,” House says. “I just know it’s time for your coffee run and I needed caffeine.” He points to the paper cup in Wilson’s hand, Wilson’s usual overly detailed order scrawled onto the side.

Wilson purses his lips, seconds away from an eye roll.

“I’m serious,” House says, affecting his voice to saccharine pleading. “This patient might die if I’m not at my most alert and wouldn’t you just feel terrible then?” 

Chase laughs at that but the others are busy debating the implications of the patient’s spontaneous pneumothorax. 

Wilson glares moodily and slinks over to House’s side to hand House the coffee. House sips at it happily, and Wilson leans into to peer at the medical records House has in front of him. 

“ _That’s_ interesting,” he mutters, reaching out to point at a line of blood work results. His shirt sleeve is rolled up over his forearm.

“I know,” House says eagerly. “I’ve only seen a result that high three times in my entire career.” He sips at the coffee again and sets it down. He points to another line on the sheet. “But with the creatinine? Can’t figure it out.” 

“Huh,” Wilson says, eyeing it with the utmost fascination in his eyes. He gives himself a little shake and stands up. “Hopefully she doesn’t lose her kidneys,” he says sympathetically, and House rolls his eyes. He puts his hands on his hips. “Well, enjoy _my_ coffee. See you at lunch?” 

“Yeah,” House says and unthinking, puts one hand around Wilson, low enough that he’s almost at his ass, and curls his other fist in Wilson’s shirt to bring him down for a soft kiss.

The room falls silent as a morgue in the time it takes for House to end the kiss. He looks first at Wilson, who is staring at him, and then his fellows, half of whom are also staring at him and half of whom are staring at Wilson. 

He glares back up at Wilson, and hisses, “Hands on hips!” 

“You are not pinning this on me!” Wilson whispers back. “I told you they’d find out, I didn’t think it’d be this soon! It’s on _you_!”

The fellows are still silent, able to hear all of this stupid whisper-fight. Wilson does not, however, try to pull away from House, even though his palm is now resting definitely over the curve of Wilson's ass.

It’d be incredibly difficult to pass this off as a prank by now, and the fellows are looking more intrigued by the minute. So he does the logical thing and says, “This must be a hard way for you to find out, dear children, but when a man loves a man very much…”

Their eyes bug out and Taub actually knocks a file of films off the table with his elbow. 

“Oh come on!” House snaps. “Our patient is dying! Not one of you can tell me why her lung collapsed without warning! Focus! If you think a lukewarm kiss—" he can just about hear Wilson’s bitch face “—is more interesting than anything on this job, you’re welcome to leave it.” 

Foreman is the first to lose interest, rambling off some incorrect possible diagnosis and then Thirteen tears her eyes away to disagree with him, followed by Chase, then lastly Taub. 

“Yes, lunch,” House says then, turning back to Wilson. Wilson is giving him some sort of _look_ , and then he leans down and gives House an even softer kiss than the first. He straightens House’s blazer and leaves as quickly as he arrived.

He can practically feel how hard the team is straining their peripherals at him. “I _said_ give me answers!” He snaps his fingers at them. “Come on now! There are four of you these days, I should be getting better ideas with the extra brain power. If I’m not, that means one of you is actually brain dead and once I figure out who…”

A large number of wildly far reaching and implausible diagnoses are being volleyed at him, so he sits back and gulps at Wilson’s coffee as he shoots every single one of them down. 

•••

It’s not so bad, House reasons by the time lunch comes around. His gossiping ducklings have spread the word enough that more than a few people are staring when he and Wilson arrive but it also means that he can openly keep a hand at the small of Wilson’s back while they move through line. 

“Have they said anything about it?” Wilson asks as he frowns while House steals some of his fries once they've sat down, staunchly ignoring the fervent glances their way. “I bought you your own, you know.”

“There’s just something about stealing yours that makes them so much tastier,” House tells him earnestly. “And no. Cowards. But they will. None of them can possibly resist the fact that I now have a personal life, especially one that’s so very gay.”

Wilson makes a _that’s fair_ face and steals some of House’s fries, as if to even the score. “I suppose it’ll make its way back to Cuddy soon enough.” 

House points a fry at him. “Now that is really something I can’t wait for. She’s going to absolutely lose her mind. There’s nothing she can do, of course but—”

“You two!” It’s Cuddy’s voice and there’s the clack of heels coming steadily toward them. 

“Speak of the inappropriately dressed devil!” House calls loudly as she approaches. Wilson kicks him underneath the table, and House traps his foot between his own ankles. He takes a sip from Wilson’s soda.

Cuddy stops before their table. “A little birdie told me that love is in the air,” she says.

House waits for the outburst, the lecture. 

“James, House,” she says. “I’m really happy for you two.”

He can hear the cough Wilson gives that means he’s holding back laughter and releases Wilson’s foot just to lodge a hefty kick at his shin. Wilson is expecting it and dodges the blow before it can land. 

“You what,” House says lamely. 

“It’s always made so much sense,” Cuddy explains, sounding like she’s about to tell the beginnings of a great romance. “I mean, I can’t imagine how dysfunctional and weird your actual relationship is but I’d imagine it’s just what the both of you want. And I’m happy for you. Genuinely. Of course, if it all goes to hell, keep it out of my hospital.” She smiles beatifically at them and expresses once more just how very fucking _happy_ she is for them and clacks away.

Wilson laughs, and laughs, and laughs. 

“No sex tonight,” House snarls, which is a goddamned lie. For good measure, he takes Wilson’s drink with him as he gets up and leaves, with Wilson still laughing behind him at the table. 

•••

He discovers that Wilson very unexpectedly calls House _baby_ when House fucks him—something he didn't do the other way around—which would be absolutely hilarious if it weren’t hot enough that House’s vision tunnels every time Wilson says it all breathy and choked. 

Wilson also likes when House shampoos his hair for him in the shower. He goes boneless and makes little noises despite House cajoling him for it, and sleeps like the dead afterwards. 

It isn’t so bad that Wilson gets to be so completely his this way, and for other people to know it, to know Wilson is off limits and that Wilson _chose_ House. 

It just isn’t so bad.

•••

Chase is the first to broach the subject. House goes to harass him about hurrying up while Chase is running some labs and before House can leave after verbally abusing him, he says without prompting, “Honestly, I just assumed you and Wilson had been banging on and off for years now.” 

It’s interesting enough—had everyone but House been aware of this?—that House pauses inside the room and allows Chase to continue. 

“What’s surprising,” Chase muses, narrowing his eye at a test tube of blood, “is the relationship part.” 

“Really?” House asks before he can stop himself. 

“I mean, it makes sense.” House wonders if he and Cuddy have been talking. “But I never would have figured you could make it work.”

House frowns. “Yes, well, thanks so much for your unsolicited relationship advice. I can see from recent events that your judgment in these matters should definitely be trusted.” 

Chase doesn’t rise to the bait. He picks up another test tube, examines that. “New relationship aside, have you two _really_ not been hooking up this whole time?” 

“Finish the tests,” House says irritably. Chase sighs and just scoots over to the microscope, apparently settled with the end of the conversation.

•••

Thirteen is more forward. She stalks into House’s office while he’s bidding at an online auction, having sent each of the team off on various tasks for their cases. 

“You should be running a stress test with Taub,” House says flippantly after looking up briefly at her. “Damn it!” The new bid is up $300 and he clicks out of it dejectedly. 

Thirteen is standing there, arms crossed. “After all the shit you gave me.” 

House sighs. “So what? You wanted me to join you in the gloried fellowship of gayness? Sing kumbaya and wave a little rainbow flag with you?” 

She sits down on one of the chairs in front of his desk. “So that’s what you were afraid of, on that phone call,” she says knowingly. “And that’s who the ‘he’ was.” She regards him pensively.

House shifts uncomfortably in his seat, unwilling to make eye contact. “I assure you I have a deep fear of Mickey Mouse. It’s the voice. And the ears.” 

“Well, good job anyway. He’s not my quite type but objectively, you definitely _scored_. So high five to that.” 

“Mickey Mouse is a score?”

Thirteen laughs. “How’s the sex? I’m curious.”

House considers honestly telling her. Maybe over beers. He feels that she would be the only person around here worthy of trading sex stories.

She’s grinning like the Cheshire Cat, as if aware she’s won some fucked up game amongst the fellows, the chosen one who gets even a glimpse into House’s personal life.

House smiles back. “Go do the fucking stress test.” 

•••

Foreman does not seem to want to acknowledge it at all. House takes to giving Wilson _hard_ kisses whenever Forearm is around, and grabs Wilson’s ass once or twice in front of him too. Wilson half heartedly attempts to tell him off, but mostly seems pleased by it, cheeks pink each time. 

House is beginning to suspect that Wilson has a _thing_ for House being public about them, for House showing shamelessness about it. He even thinks Wilson might enjoy how possessive he gets. 

But this is neither here nor there for the peculiar fact that Foreman seems determined to turn a stubbornly blind eye to it.

“Is it some sort of weird flavor of homophobia?” House finally asks, arm around Wilson’s waist while all three of them examine films in his office. 

“House,” Wilson hisses.

Foreman raises a brow, otherwise unruffled. “I’m not homophobic.”

“Oh, he says he’s not homophobic which empirically improves he’s not,” House stage-whispers to Wilson, who frowns at him and apologizes to Foreman—and still makes no attempt to step away from House at all.

“Look, do you _want_ me to comment on your relationship? Why is that so important to you? Shouldn’t that be kept between you and your partner?”

House snorts. “He said ‘partner’, Wilson. He’s so progressive.”

“House, knock it off. I think that’s a cyst, not a tumor,” Wilson adds, pointing to a spot on the film. 

Foreman leans in. “Are you sure? I see a tumor. Look at the edges, near the—” 

“He said it looked like a cyst,” House supplies. “So you really have nothing to say? The entire hospital is turned upside down over this and you’re not even going to blink?”

Foreman sighs and looks over at House. “Your narcissism really knows no bounds. All I’ve really gotten from this is that Wilson’s divorces and infidelity make a lot of sense.”

Wilson splutters stupidly then, and House lets a small smile stretch at his lips. Foreman turns back to the film. “I still think it’s a tumor. I’m going to get Chase, see what he thinks.” 

Wilson pouts as he leaves. “You’re the one that’s been bullying him, he had no reason to take a shot at me.” 

“Yes, dear,” House says vaguely, squeezing his shoulder and leaning in to eye the film more closely. 

•••

Taub is the last, and the worst, which is fitting, House supposes. He’s the opposite of Foreman, unable to stop himself from looking warily at them when House and Wilson are in any kind of proximity to one another. 

He even gets shifty when House says Wilson’s name, in reference or in passing. It’s amusing mostly, and he idly wonders what will make Taub break and acknowledge it. 

It turns out to be the simplest thing. House is watching Taub redo an EGD, because the first attempt showed no abnormalities, which can’t be possible with the patient’s symptoms. “No ulcers or lacerations in the esophagus,” Taub intones, a note of resentment in his voice. If he didn’t want to be babysat, he shouldn’t have fucked up.

“Good thing we still have an entire stomach and duodenum to go,” House says bitingly. “As I’d hope you’d recall from your first year of medical school.”

Wilson pops his head in then. “You’re assisting a patient procedure?” He looks tired and his hair is messy, as though he’s been running his hands through it. House frowns.

“Only because he can’t do it,” House says, gesturing to Taub, who is clearly attempting to split his concentration between them and the procedure. “Stay focused!” 

Wilson sighs, but doesn’t berate House.

House frowns deeper. “You should take an early day.”

Wilson smiles at him, just a quick thing. “Can’t. Have to deliver three more prognoses.” 

“They can wait,” House insists. “If they’re dying, they’re still going to be dying tomorrow. Go home and take a nap. You look absolutely awful. And not in a cute way.”

“House,” Wilson says patiently, kindly. “I’m alright. I just wanted to remind you we have to stop and pick up more food for Limmy on the way home, and I thought we could get Thai takeout for dinner while we did that. Okay?”

House nods, still eyeing Wilson’s depleted appearance. Taub has now stopped the procedure entirely, and is doing a piss poor job of pretending he isn’t watching them. 

“I’m okay, House. Thanks for caring, but stop worrying about me. I’ll see you in a bit.” Wilson gives him a nod and retreats. 

“Any particular reason you’re risking more complications on our unconscious patient by drawing out the procedure unnecessarily?” House snaps.

Taub glares and starts moving the scope again. There’s a beat and then he says, “I have a cousin who’s gay.” 

House rolls his eyes. “How brave of you.” 

“Wilson’s a good guy,” Taub tries again. 

“Better than you,” House agrees. 

Wilson is better than everyone in this damn hospital, but his point still stands. 

•••

“We’ve just had fried chicken for Thanksgiving dinner, there’s no way you can actually _want_ to kiss me right now,” Wilson insists, his mouth looking infinitely kissable. Wilson underestimates House’s perversion.

“You underestimate my perversion,” House tells him, grabbing him by the waist and pulling him to straddle House properly on the couch. 

“I didn’t think that was possible,” Wilson says. “House, this is disgusting.” 

House lets go of him. “Then go. Go and wash up if you don’t want any action right now. Go on.”

Wilson glares at him. “Disgusting,” he mutters, then kisses House soundly. Their lips are all greasy and it should be gross but it’s not because House _is_ perverse and it _is_ Wilson. 

He gets both hands on Wilson’s face and holds him still, kisses him thorough and languidly, taking his time with it. He likes the shuddery breaths Wilson gives when he’s slow about this, and the incrementally relaxing of his body, like bit by bit he’s just giving in to pure feeling. 

He grabs Wilson’s ass and Wilson makes a squeaky sound and kisses him deeper. “You know,” House says as Wilson kisses down his jawline, “if every holiday had been spent this way in the past I’d have been far more festive.” 

Wilson snorts. “Yes, and the themes of generosity, love, and joy just weren’t enough.” 

“Exactly.” 

House sucks a lazy mark onto Wilson’s neck, and Wilson sighs, lolling his head to the side. House shoves the hand not on Wilson’s ass up the back of his shirt, feeling out warm, soft skin all for himself. “Every holiday will be like this from now on,” Wilson promises. 

“Better be,” House murmurs. 

Wilson gets his own hands up House’s shirt and digs his nails into the skin over House’s ribs as he kisses House again, lips sliding more filthily this time. House pulls back just to look at him, because he likes how Wilson’s already pouty lips get moreso when he’s been kissed and he likes the dark, open look in Wilson’s eyes. House puts a hand to Wilson’s cheek and Wilson turns to kiss his palm. 

Limmy chooses just then to jump onto the couch, and attempts to wobble her way between them, slipping awkwardly over their arms and shoulders and getting caught between their chests. She looks up at them and meows indignantly, as if this is all their fault. 

“I’ll feed her,” Wilson sighs, and gives House a quick kiss with her pressed between them. She meows in annoyance again and Wilson stands up, taking her with him. 

House stretches and massages his leg slightly, which isn’t hurting too badly at all. “We should take the day off tomorrow.”

“What?” Wilson says from the kitchen, sounding surprised. “You want to miss work, potential cases? Two days in a row?”

“Don’t act so surprised,” House rebuffs, scowling slightly. “Maybe I’m trying for work-life balance.” He reaches out for the remote and turns the TV on, flipping absently through channels. 

“I honestly can’t believe you just used the phrase _work-life balance_ ,” Wilson laughs. 

“Keep it up and you’re sleeping on the couch,” House says grouchily.

“Seeing as it’s both my bed and my couch,” Wilson says, “I think I get to make that call.” He comes to stand behind House, leans down and cranes his head to kiss House’s cheek. He rests his hands on House’s shoulders. “House.”

“What,” House mutters, turning the TV off. He tilts his chin back and Wilson gives him an upside down kiss. 

“I’m really happy,” Wilson whispers, like a confession. “House. I’m really—I’m really happy.” 

House turns his head to better look at Wilson, but they’re so close it’s mostly just a blur of dilating pupils, dark lashes and crow’s feet. He brings a hand up and feels around until he can place his palm on Wilson’s cheek. “Yeah. Me too.”

Wilson tries to kiss him, but their smiles get in the way. House searches for any trace of cynicism he can pull to mind, because once he would have torn apart the very concept of happiness, but now he comes up entirely empty. 

•••

“Wilson wants to get married. Or have a civil union. Whatever. I don’t know what the latest gay thing is. But he wants that. I do too, I think.” 

Nolan raises his eyebrows. “It’s been less than three weeks.”

“No,” House scoffs. “It’s been almost twenty years.”

**Author's Note:**

> Link to the [Tumblr post for this fic](https://houserenaissance.tumblr.com/post/616662561215119360/he-wont-tell-you-that-he-loves-you-pairing) if you are so inclined
> 
> And please check out these absolutely gorgeous covers for this fic, beautifully made by Tumblr user [justkeeptrekkin](https://justkeeptrekkin.tumblr.com/) right [here](https://justkeeptrekkin.tumblr.com/post/618389808047439872/book-covers-for-he-wont-tell-you-he-loves-you-by) and [here](https://justkeeptrekkin.tumblr.com/post/618289507247276032/book-covers-for-six-of-my-favourite-fics)!!
> 
> Finding myself writing fic eight years after the finale was sobering but I had fun regardless and can't complain too much. The characters are too wonderful and I hope I did them justice, gratuitous fluff and all. I let myself be a little lenient with how emotionally open both House and Wilson were because I imagined if there was ever a time they would be able to do that, it was sober House/post-Mayfield. 
> 
> Kudos and comments are everything.
> 
> I'm [@houserenaissance](https://houserenaissance.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr because yep, we're in that deep right now.


End file.
